


Such Familiar Magic

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, Familiar Dean Winchester, First Kiss, Fluff, Injured Dean Winchester, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Strangers to Lovers, Witch Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17144402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: When solitary witch Castiel finds an injured dog unconscious in his garden, he takes it in. He's expecting to heal it, look after it for a few days, then perhaps return it to its owners.He'snotexpecting it to be one of the strongest familiars he's ever met.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas Miggs! We talked about this idea months and months ago, and getting you for the Sthecret Sthanta was my excuse to finally get off my butt and write it :D you are the loveliest bean and I am forever thankful for your friendship and your amazing talents. I'm so glad I met you through the [Profound Bond discord](https://discord.gg/NvC5tEn), and I hope you like this!
> 
> Thank you to [Mal](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com) for the title, my brain was 100% fried. Writing is the easy part, titles and summaries are the hardest. I ran out of time and patience to get this beta-read, so be gentle :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

Every morning, almost without fail, Castiel rises with the sun.

Usually he likes to get a head start on his jobs in the quiet solitude of the early morning, when the dawn light filters through the trees and the grass outside is still dewy, when the birds have just begun to sing and the rest of the world is still waking up. It’s the best time to go outside and check on his garden, or organize his library after a tricky night of spellcasting, or start working on the charms he makes to sell at the local market.

Some mornings, though, he allows himself a very rare sleep-in. This Saturday morning is one of them—last night had been the full moon, and he’d been out in his garden until the early hours of the morning harvesting the plants that he grows, some rare and some dangerous and all of them beloved.

As a result of the harvesting and the temporary storage in his workshop to make sure no harm befalls them, though, Castiel had barely managed to get into the shower to wash the dirt from his skin before falling into bed.

When he wakes the next morning, the sun has already risen above the treetops, and golden sunlight streams through the window of his bedroom to pool across his bed. It’s warm and comfortable, and he stretches languidly beneath his duvet. After all his hard work last night, he’s allowing himself a lazy day today, and he’s in no hurry to get up. Instead, he relishes the peaceful feeling of being half-in and half-out of sleep for a few minutes, then rolls over onto his back and finally opens his eyes.

There’s nothing quite like a full morning of good sleep, after he’s spent the moonlit night working as hard as he humanly can to achieve everything he needs to in the short timeframe he’s provided. Gods, if it isn’t a satisfying feeling.

He grins up at the ceiling. All he has to do today is check on the handful of seedlings he planted last night, then properly preserve and store all the plants and herbs that he harvested. It’s looking to be a quiet, uneventful day, and he’s so ready for it.

It takes a few more minutes to work up the mental fortitude to leave the warmth and comfort of his bed, but at least the house stays warm no matter what the temperature outside is, thanks to the many spells and wards he’s placed on it. The wooden floorboards are smooth beneath Castiel’s bare feet when he swings his legs off the edge of the bed, and he stretches up towards the ceiling, working the kinks out of his back.

Maybe today is the day for a long bath, if his back is going to keep complaining about the hours he spent hunched over his garden last night. That’s a problem for later, though—right now, his stomach growls hungrily.

First order of business: breakfast.

Castiel pulls on his dressing gown—he’s not one to wear pajamas while he sleeps, and it’s probably not a good idea to cook food while he’s naked—then pads through his house towards the kitchen.

He pulls one of his frying pans down from its hook above the stove and places it on a burner, then lights the fire beneath with a flick of his wrist. A simple breakfast will suffice this morning, since he doesn’t have enough energy for anything more complicated, and he pulls the necessary ingredients out of his fridge to set about making scrambled eggs.

Many witches that he’s met shun the use of electricity, preferring to live solely off their own craft, but maintaining the same effects as electricity produces can be tiring, and Castiel would much rather save his energy for something more productive. The monthly bill for electricity and power is a small price to pay—and it’s also beneficial in that it helps the regular townspeople believe that he’s not some extra-weird recluse living on the edge of the forest and trying to seclude himself from society.

Not many of them know the truth about the true nature of his crafts, and he’d like to keep it that way. Only a handful of people know that there is real magic behind the charms and trinkets he passes off as cheerful superstition—one of whom owns a free range chicken farm just up the road and who now gives Castiel free eggs for curing a whole coop of a sickness the vets couldn’t identify.

He doesn’t flaunt his magic, but he knows how to use it when it matters.

The eggs make for some damn good breakfast, too, and he hums quietly to himself as he melts some butter in his hot pan, makes up the mixture for his scrambled eggs, then adds them to the pan.

The herbs he uses are all from his own garden, and Castiel sighs happily as his breakfast cooks. It’s always a good start to the day. A piece of toast and a mug of coffee—heated and brewed by magic because he doesn’t have the patience to do _that_ properly—complete his perfect breakfast, and there’s a lightness in his bones as he sits down with it all at his rustic little dining table.

Everything in his house he’s either bought locally from business owner in the town, or he made himself when he moved away from his coven and into this house. The dining table is a project he worked on himself, but all the shelves and cupboards in his workshop were specially commissioned from one of the best local carpenters, with a few extra wards and spells added once they’d been delivered to Castiel’s house.

All in all, it’s a wonderfully homey place, and as he sips at his coffee and eats his eggs, he knows there nowhere else he would rather be.

The only issue is that, since he lives on the edge of the forest, out of sight of any of the neighbouring houses, it can get a bit… lonely.

Castiel has been solitary for many years, content working on his craft alone, but admittedly, in recent times, he’s begun to find his house a little too quiet. A little too big for just one person.

There’s not much he can do to change that, though. He’s the only witch in this area, that his powers tell him for sure. Familiars are few and far between these days, and there are even fewer suited to matching Castiel’s levels of power.

And how would he ever be able to date anyone if he has to keep the most crucial part of himself secret?

No, by this point, he’s definitely resigned to his solitude.

Not that it matters a huge amount. He’s still _happy_ , just… not as happy as he could be.

He shakes his head distractedly when he realizes he’s gotten stuck in his thoughts, staring out the far window and letting his coffee go cold. Today isn’t a day for wallowing, it’s a day to revel in the successes of last night. Castiel’s smile returns as he thinks about just how successful his harvesting was in the light of the full moon. He’ll be able to put together some of his most complicated spellwork yet with these ingredients.

He finishes his breakfast, cleans his dishes and kitchen with a few hand movements and a muttered spell because he’s too lazy to actually tidy up properly this morning, then gets up to go get dressed properly before he really starts his day.

Since he’s not going out anywhere today, an old t-shirt and a pair of jeans with a hole in one knee do the job. He runs his fingers through his bed-head a couple of times, but otherwise leaves it as it is, then pulls on a pair of work boots and makes his way in the direction of his back door.

Of all the places he’s been, all the great wonders of nature and the secret, special spaces known only to witches, Castiel’s garden remains his favourite place in all the world.

He’s been working on it ever since he moved into this house, and everything is set up and growing just as he wants it. With plenty of space in his back garden, Castiel has had the opportunity to plant fruit trees, herbs, bushes, flowers—whatever he wants, really. He even has a small greenhouse tucked away in the corner of his property, locked and warded and containing his most precious, fragile, or dangerous plants.

Many witches have to outsource to merchants or salespeople for the rarer spellwork ingredients they might need, but Castiel is lucky in that he has almost everything he could ever desire right here, growing in the expansive backyard of his home. He steps down off the porch and onto the stone path he laid by hand, turns his face up towards the sun, and _breathes_.

Being in his garden fills Castiel with an overwhelming feeling of peace, tranquility, and a content happiness that only his work can bring him. The plants radiate an aura of calm, each speaking to him in some small way, and he lets it wash over him. The garden is peaceful, healthy…

_Protecting?_

Castiel frowns and holds his hands up in the air in front of him, focusing his magic on his garden. The message he’s getting from his plants is that they’re… protecting something? Watching over it? There’s no sense of urgency from them, just soothing calm, so whatever they’re talking about, it’s not a threat to them or Castiel.

But Castiel’s entire garden is warded. To humans, it should look like nothing but uninteresting weeds and overgrown grass, and will actively deter them. If anything with a magic signature different to Castiel’s tries to cross the wards, they’ll be denied. Animals visit his garden all the time, but his plants have never taken the time to make him specifically _aware_ of their presence.

So what is this all about?

He ventures further into his garden, towards the direction his magic is pulling him in. His fingertips tingle, and there’s the faintest taste in electricity in the air. When he rounds his grove of fruit trees, the odd sensation in his chest grows stronger, and he scans across his garden until his eyes fall on something out of place, and he _knows_ that that’s what his garden has been telling him about.

Nestled among his white heather and winterbloom is a dog.

“Really?” he mutters under his breath— _this_ is the reason his magic and his plants are calling out to him? This German Shepherd asleep in his gardenbed?

As he ventures closer, though, he realizes that there’s more to this situation than he’d first thought. The dog looks thin, the pads of its paws are bloody, and it’s covered in scratches and scrapes with stained-red fur in places.

Castiel kneels by the edge of the gardenbed to get a closer look, and his heart twists in sorrow and sympathy. No wonder his garden was trying to alert him of the animal’s presence—it’s clearly injured and probably malnourished. It’s nothing a few poultices, some spells, and a couple of days of rest won’t fix, though, and he reaches out to slide his hand gently beneath the dog’s shoulder.

When his fingers come into contact with soft fur and wiry muscle beneath, a shiver runs down the length of his spine.

He pauses for a second at the strange reaction, waiting and wondering if anything else will happen. The magic under his skin dances for a few seconds, then settles, lying dormant once again. Castiel continues to slide his hands under the dog’s body.

It’s deceptively heavy, and he grunts at the weight as he lifts the unconscious dog out from amongst his flowers. He’d half expected it to wake up once he started moving it, but its head and its legs stay loose and floppy. It’s definitely in need of some care and some good food.

“Come on, let’s get you patched up,” he says to the dog, shifting it in his arms to make it easier to carry. One ear twitches, the barest movement, but otherwise the dog remains limp and unconscious. The sooner Castiel can heal it, and maybe give it a few good meals, the better it will feel.

He makes his way back through the garden, pausing to check on the health of the few seedlings he’d planted last night, but everything looks to be in order. The semi-urgent thrum he’d felt when he’d first stepped foot in the grass has faded now that he has the dog in his arms, and nothing else seems to be amiss within his little sanctuary.

Getting the back door open with an armful of dog proves to be a little tricky, and Castiel almost regrets warding them completely against all magic use, but it’s necessary to protect all the valuable and dangerous items he stores inside his house. Instead, he fumbles with the door handle while trying not to jostle the dog too much, and eventually manages to get the door open. Once he’s inside again, he nudges it closed with his foot, and then heads towards his workshop.

As always, the heavy wards feel cool and welcoming on his skin as he crosses the threshold into his workshop—like his magic is welcoming him back into the place in his house where he feels most at home, most safe, most _himself_. His workshop is his haven, the place where he can practice his craft, and his magic is imbued into every wall, every book, every object within.

In his arms, the dog twitches.

Castiel pauses, halfway to his workbench, and looks down at it. The dog’s eyes are still closed, its pointed ears floppy instead of pricked and alert. It’s little more than still, dead weight in Castiel’s arms. But he’s sure he felt it twitch.

 _It’s probably just a reaction to the sheer amount of magic in this room_ , he reasons. Most creatures only ever come into contact with trace amounts; residual spells, the distant effect of charms, being diverted away from a warded, protected area. Entering into such a heavily magicked room would probably have an effect on any animal, which Castiel may have forgotten, since he’s so used to it and is also the only person or creature to ever have stepped foot inside his house after he moved in.

He makes his way over to his workbench and carefully sets the dog down. It sprawls out across the wooden surface with loose limbs, and now Cas gets his first chance to examine it properly. He’s no healing specialist, but he’s dabbled in enough different practices that these simple wounds should be no issue.

When Castiel parts the red-stained fur, he finds a handful of deep wounds that are only just beginning to heal. He’ll deal with those first. Were he a healing witch, he’d be able to completely fix them up with a carefully placed touch and a spell or two, but he’s much more confident with his plants and herbs, so that’s what he goes to now.

It doesn’t take long for him to mix up a poultice that will greatly speed up the healing process, and his gentle fingers apply it to the dog’s wounds and rubbed-raw paws. Its fur is still matted with dried blood and dirt and now a mixture of herbs and creams, and it looks so small and exhausted on Castiel’s workbench. His heart twists with sympathy.

He may not be a proper healer, but it would be remiss of him not to at least _try_ to help this creature further.

Before he attempts any spells, he consults one of his many spellbooks, dragging his fingertips over the rows of spines until he finds the one he’s looking for. He purchased it many years ago—a true gem hidden away in an old, second-hand bookstore and being passed off as nothing but superstition and falsehoods. Castiel had recognized some of the spells as ones his grandmother had sworn by, and bought it on the spot. Even if he hadn’t inherited her gift for healing, it would still be useful.

And he’d been correct.

The spell he’s looking for is simple. It doesn’t let him fully heal all of the animal’s wounds, but it does encourage and speed the body’s natural healing processes, and when paired with the poultices it will be just as good. Castiel checks the incantation once, twice, then a third time just to be sure, and then sets the book open but off to the side so he can turn his attention to the dog.

Its side rises and falls gently with the rhythm of its breathing, and Castiel can feel it beneath his palms as he settles his hands onto the dog’s fur. One on its shoulder, one on its hip, splaying his fingers out into soft fur and focusing his magic into his hands, ready to leash it with the words of his spell and let it loose to do its job in helping the German Shepherd.

The words of the spell rise up to the surface of his mind; without thinking, Castiel closes his eyes and lets them roll off his tongue, word by word, until the last syllable of the spell falls from his lips.

His magic is loosed like a broken dam, and with it comes the crackle of ozone and the feeling of electricity so strong that all the hairs on his arms stand up on end. His breath hitches involuntarily—he shouldn’t be feeling this from a simple healing spell.

Startled, Castiel breaks his contact with the dog and stumbles back a step. He opens his eyes to stare at his hands—flickering with the electric blue sparks that signify his own magic, but strangely also flecked with a green he’s never noticed before—and then looks up at his workbench.

Where there was once a German Shepherd lying on the wooden surface, now there is a naked man sitting there, staring at Castiel with the greenest eyes he’s ever seen.

He sucks in a sharp breath as they lock eyes, and something _pulls_ in his magic, something raw and barely-bridled, urging him forward. It’s all that Castiel can do to resist it, for how deeply-seated the impulse is, but he’s not stupid enough to give in.

This man who was once a dog and has somehow inextricably ended up in Castiel’s garden, sheltered by his plants…

There’s no doubt in Castiel’s mind that he’s looking at a familiar.

 _He’s_ your  _familiar_ , a little voice whispers in the back of his mind. That pull, the way the familiar had reacted to Castiel’s magic, the flecks of green in its manifestation that have to be the same colour as this man’s eyes…

“Who are you?” he breathes, his eyes wide. He’s reeling from this turn of events, caught on uneven footing. Those eyes captivate him like nothing else.

The man doesn’t reply, just keeps fixing Castiel with that wide-eyed stare, like he also can’t believe what’s just happened. For a few long seconds, neither of them move.

Then, before Castiel can react, the familiar shifts his legs and swings off the table. Castiel can tell that he’s still hurting—the wounds on his animal form have translated across to his human body—but he seems to move without noticing or acknowledging them. Instead, he moves with determination and purpose as he crosses the space between them, taking Castiel so completely by surprise that before he can even take one step backwards, the man is right in front of him.

He crowds up into Castiel’s personal space, fingers curling into the front of his t-shirt. It’s not a threatening gesture, more… anchoring. Like if he doesn’t hold on, Castiel is going to float away.

“Do that again,” the man implores, with a voice scratchy and roughened by disuse. “The magic.”

Castiel obliges, too stunned not to. He lifts his hand palm-up into the space between them and brings his magic to the surface with the barest thought. Blue-green sparks dance over his palm and between his fingers, and the familiar shudders, his eyes hooding.

“You felt that too?” Castiel asks quietly, watching the familiar’s reaction to his magic. It feels foolish to hope, after so many years of accepting that there wouldn’t ever be a familiar out there for him. Is this man the one who will have the strength to refine Castiel’s power?

“Felt it?” the man says, still entranced by the sparks that dance over Castiel’s skin. “Feels like it lit me up like a Christmas tree. I’ve never met any witch whose magic felt like _that_.”

Any lingering doubts that Castiel had had about this man not being a familiar fade away. He knows magic, and he’s familiar with witches, and his reaction to Castiel’s magic is exactly how a compatible familiar would be feeling.

One of the man’s hands uncurls from the front of Castiel’s shirt, and he reaches for Castiel’s hand before he has a chance to pull it away.

“Wait—“ is all he manages to say before the familiar’s hand passes into the field of sparks, then settles against his palm.

Castiel holds his breath and waits for him to pull away, or pass out, or cry out with pain, but…

The familiar just sighs, his eyes drifting closed. Their hands are pressed together now, palm-to-palm, blue-green sparks dancing around their intertwined hands. Instead of feeling his magic spike up and attack the unfamiliar entity, as it has with every other person who has ever touched it, it simply… settles. Like a roaring ocean gone so still that even a single breath would ripple the surface.

“You…” Castiel breathes, unable to quite believe that this is happening. That there’s a _familiar_ touching his magic, and not only not being driven away by it, but actually managing to calm it. Harness it. 

“You’re strong,” the familiar murmurs, a barely-there movement of his lips. His hand flexes against Castiel’s and when his eyes open just slightly to show hints of green, the corners of his mouth also quirk up. “Good thing I’m stronger.”

It feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room when the man looks at him like that. “Who _are_ you?” Castiel breathes, repeating the question that the man had ignored earlier. It feels much more important now that he knows just how resilient and how perfect of a match this familiar is.

The man opens his eyes fully, but he doesn’t take his hand away from Castiel’s. For the first time in Castiel’s life, his head feels quiet—the kind of quiet that he only notices now that all the static and distractions are gone.

“I’m Dean,” he says, and Castiel knows instinctively that he’s telling the truth.

“Dean,” he repeats, testing out the syllable on his tongue. Even _that_ feels perfect. “I’m Castiel. I’m a witch—but you probably knew that already.”

Dean’s smile turns more amused. “I had an idea, yes.” Finally, he pulls his hand away from Castiel’s, and the clarity that he had brought disappears almost instantly. Castiel mourns its loss, and has to take a second to reorient himself.

“Did that help you?” Dean asks cautiously, tilting his head and watching Castiel’s reaction as he tries to readjust. It’s such a dog-like movement that it throws Cas for a second. “I’ve never tried to bond with anyone. Was that what that was?”

It must have been, right? Even now, Castiel can still feel the faintest effects of Dean’s touch lingering around the corners of his magic, smoothing out the edges that spike and jar. And that had only been a few seconds—what would a full bond feel like?

He can’t get ahead of himself. Dean is injured and probably only passing through. It would be foolish to entertain thoughts of a bond with someone he’s just met.

Even so, that doesn’t mean he won’t tell Dean the truth. “I think so,” he says quietly, closing his fist and extinguishing the sparks. His magic reluctantly retreats, but stays thrumming excitedly just beneath his skin, as though it longs for Dean’s touch again. “It’s like you… you calmed my magic. I’ve never felt it that strong or that malleable before. You’re the first familiar I’ve met who was even able to touch it, let alone have that effect.”

Dean stares at him for a few seconds, the expression in his green eyes unreadable. When he does speak, all he says is: “Huh.”

 _Huh indeed_. This is not how Castiel had expected this day to go. He takes a half-step back so that he can get his head on straight again after what just happened. Now that his magic is quieting, he realizes that even after taking on his human form, Dean is still injured, poultices smeared over his skin near the wounds and his skin stained with dirt.

He’s also still _very_ naked.

All at once, Castiel feels his cheeks heat, and he clears his throat. Possible bond or no, that has to be set aside for the moment while he looks after Dean.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and then I’ll take another look at your wounds,” he says, redirecting himself. First and foremost, he’s here to _help_ Dean, not to bond with him or make things weird—though the situation is, arguably, already pretty weird. 

What a day this has turned out to be.

~~~

Once he’s had a shower in Castiel’s bathroom, Dean is much less dirty but no less beautiful.

Castiel had given him privacy in the bathroom but made sure he was nearby just in case Dean needed him. He’s still a little weak and wobbly, despite drawing some strength from both Castiel’s half-finished healing spell and the touch of his magic, but insistent on not needing help. In the meantime, Castiel had gone about finding Dean some clothes to wear and tidying up his house quickly—he hadn’t really been expecting to have a guest over any time soon, and it’s not quite as neat as he would like.

When Dean comes out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist, Cas tries his hardest to look at him with a clinical healer’s eye, his gaze catching on the visible scrapes and wounds and the mottled bruising that colours his skin in some areas. If he happens to linger on the strength of Dean’s biceps or the way his freckles stand out now that he’s not stained with dirt, well. He’s only human.

“Feel better?” he asks, to which Dean just nods. The occasional quiet isn’t something that Castiel minds—he’s used to living by himself, and if he’s to hazard a guess, Dean has spent a while in his animal form. He might not quite be up to chatting just yet.

“I found you some clothes to wear,” he continues, showing Dean the pile of cloth in his hands. “Do you want to get changed now, or let me have another look at your wounds first?”

Dean looks briefly down at the clothes, then back up at Castiel. “Wounds,” he says decisively, already moving in the direction of Castiel’s workshop.

The corners of Castiel’s mouth tick up into a smile and he follows after Dean, who already seems to know his way around the little house. When he reaches the doorway to the workshop, he pauses, standing just outside the threshold. His gaze traces the shape of the doorframe, and Castiel watches as he reaches out to touch the wood.

When his fingers pass through the wards and into the space designated as protected, Dean shivers.

“Your whole house feels like your magic,” he says, partly over his shoulder and in Castiel’s direction, “but this room is… something else. It’s so strong.” He reaches further in, then steps through completely, passing through the wards as if they weren’t even there. They barely even trigger on Castiel’s end—just the faintest lingering feeling, telling him that something is a little different.

Again, he reminds himself that he can’t get his hopes up.

“This room is heavily warded,” Castiel says as he follows Dean into the workshop, still a little dumbstruck at just how easily Dean fits in with his magic. “There’s some powerful stuff in here that I’d like to keep protected. I’m… not quite sure how you managed to cross my wards so easily without you touching me.”

Dean looks over his shoulder at Castiel with a look in his eye that says _you know exactly how_ , his lips curled up into the barest hint of a smile, then turns away to examine the rest of the room.

There are bookcases and shelves and drawers and trunks all full of items—many of them locked away even despite the wards protecting this room—and Dean turns his curious eye on each and every one. “You’ve got a lot of different books from a lot of different disciplines,” he observes absently. “You were born a witch?”

“I don’t practice dark magic, if that’s what you mean,” Castiel rebuts calmly, watching Dean explore the room. “I come from a coven, my whole family are witches. We just… didn’t really get along. They didn’t like that I was so powerful and unpredictable, especially without a familiar.”

Dean chuckles quietly. “You got me,” he admits. “It doesn’t _feel_ like dark magic, but I had to make sure. I’ve had… bad experiences with that in the past.”

Castiel wonders absently if that’s the reason that he’d found Dean in his garden this morning, exhausted and injured, as though he’s been running for days and days. He decides not to ask—if Dean wants to share, he will in his own time.

Instead, he says, “Well, I can assure you that all my magic is home-grown. You’ve felt it—no human could contain that much power without imploding if it had its roots in necromancy or demonic energy.” He doesn’t mean it to be a brag—it’s simply the truth. Castiel may be content to live a quiet life with his plants and his seclusion, but he’s still _strong_.

“Fair point,” Dean concedes with a smile. He turns away from the bookshelf and lets his hand fall back to his side. “Where do you want me?”

 _With your hand back in mine_ , his brain unhelpfully supplies. _Bonded to me, by my side, entwined in my magic_. He still can’t get over how much Dean’s touch had calmed his magic, and how _complete_ he’d felt with even that slightest of connections.

“Up on my workbench, if you wouldn’t mind,” he says instead, and makes his way over to where he keeps his salves and herbs. “You’re welcome to change into those boxers if you’d like. I just have to mix together some things, I won’t look.”

Behind him, Castiel hears the sounds of movement and rustling fabric. He takes his time organizing his ingredients and double-checking that he knows the spells he’ll need—humans are easier for him to heal than animals, simply because he’s had to use these spells on himself so many times.

By the time he turns back around, Dean is sitting up on the edge of his workbench, bare-chested and wearing only a pair of boxers.

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat, and the corners of Dean’s mouth curl up in response. There’s interest in the depths of those eyes.

“How are you feeling now?” he asks, in an attempt to divert himself from Dean’s attractiveness and focus on the matter at hand. It feels futile, but he has to try anyway.

Dean hums and tilts his head to the side, thinking the question over. “Not quite as sore as I was when I was a dog,” he decides after a few long moments. “Still hurts, though. My muscles ache, and my hands and feet sting, and these bruises are no fun, either.”

It’s fair enough—half-done healing spell from earlier or no, Dean still looks like he’s been to hell and back. Castiel winces sympathetically. “I can definitely help you with those.” He shifts the salves and poultices he’s been working on from the side table to the sturdy workbench where Dean is sitting and sets them down, then appraises him with a critical eye. “I’ll start with the wounds and scrapes first, and then I’ll see if I can do something for the bruises and the muscle pain. Does that sound okay?”

“Sounds fuckin’ fantastic,” Dean says. He shifts his body, leaning back on his hands for a second before a pained expression flits quickly across his face and he straightens up again. “Keep forgetting that the cuts on my paws end up on my human body as well,” he mutters, resting his rubbed-raw palms face-up in his lap.

Castiel doesn’t reply, just steps in close, reaching for a small pot of salve as he does so. He’d made it himself from his own herbs and the beeswax from the apiary across town, and it’s just the thing for Dean’s hands. “Hold still,” he murmurs, scooping some out onto his fingertips and reaching for Dean’s palm with his other hand.

Again, when their skin touches, there’s that electric feeling, Castiel’s magic dancing beneath his skin at the contact and then settling just as quickly in Dean’s presence. He sighs quietly, resisting the urge to close his eyes and instead focusing on Dean.

When the salve touches his skin, Dean sighs, and all the lingering tension seems to drain out of him. His eyes slide closed as Castiel rubs the salve into his palms, sparks from Castiel’s lingering magic flickering across his skin before fading away. “Is that okay?” he asks quietly, and Dean nods.

The scrapes on Dean’s hands heal within in a minute with the help of the salve, and then Castiel moves onto his feet, cradling Dean’s heel in one hand while he smooths the salve onto his skin. Again, the magic creates tiny blue-green sparks that sink into Dean’s skin after a few seconds, and Castiel watches, mesmerized. This is his strong stuff, heavily imbued with magic, but he’s still never known it to take effect this quickly, or for his magic to manifest physically in it.

If it’s affecting Dean, he doesn’t notice—he keeps his eyes closed while Castiel finishes healing his feet, then reaches for a fresh poultice to apply to the wounds on his sides. Apart from a shiver when the cool poultice touches his skin, he doesn’t otherwise react. Just sits there with his eyes closed, breath even, warm and pliant to Castiel’s touches.

It’s only once Cas pulls back that he shifts, half-opening his eyes and finding Castiel with a gaze that feels almost distant and meditative. “Feels good,” he murmurs, his lips barely moving around the words. “The salves… but mostly your magic. Could sit here all day.”

“You like it?” Castiel asks quietly. He sets the dish holding the leftover poultice aside and absently wipes his hands on his ratty jeans. “It’s not too strong?”

The corner of Dean’s mouth curves up. “Strong? Yeah. _Too_ strong? Not at all. I’ve never been around a witch whose magic feels like yours.”

Castiel’s heart double-beats against his ribcage, and he has to force down the proud, possessive part of himself that rejoices at Dean’s words. Instead, he says, “You’ve been around a lot of witches, then?”

Dean’s smile turns tight, and Castiel immediately regrets his question.

“Don’t think I’m quite ready to talk about my past yet, Cas. No offence.” His eyes, once he opens them fully, are apologetic—but still a little guarded. For all that they’ve fallen so easily into each others’ orbits, Dean is still a stranger.

“None taken,” Castiel is quick to say, giving the familiar a reassuring smile. “I didn’t mean to pry."

“You’re fine.” Dean’s gaze softens. “An injured dog shows up in your backyard and turns into a naked dude, you’re bound to ask some questions.” He looks down at himself, at the injuries that are already beginning to heal beneath Castiel’s administrations, and sighs. “I’ll be outta your hair soon enough.”

Castiel’s heart sinks.

He hasn’t even known Dean for half a day, but already he can feel the beginnings of a bond forming, and more than that—a _friendship_. He wants to keep Dean around because he’s an amazingly compatible familiar, but also because he simply _likes_ him for who he is.

But if Dean doesn’t want to stay, Castiel won’t force him to.

He will, however, make sure that Dean knows just how much Cas wants him to stick around.

“You don’t have to go, you know,” he says quietly, keeping his gaze lowered as he packs up the last of his materials, setting them back on the side table or his shelves. He doesn’t want to see Dean’s reaction, just in case it’s a negative one—but he can still feel the familiar’s gaze weighing heavy on him.

The silence stretches out between them. Dean is the one to break it.

“What do you mean?”

Castiel runs his thumb along the edge of the jar he’s holding in his hands, then gently sets it down and turns to face Dean. He meets the familiar’s gaze, even and steady, and gives him a tiny smile.

“I mean… You could stay. Here. If you want. For as long as you need.”

Dean looks at him for a few long moments, hope in his eyes, as though he doesn’t dare to believe the offer is real. When he inhales, his breath hitches slightly, and then he smiles, so soft and _happy_ that it melts Castiel’s heart.

“I think I’d like that, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> White heather: protection  
> Winterbloom (witch-hazel): a magic spell
> 
> Thank you for reading! I honestly feel like there is more of this verse that I could explore, so let me know if you'd like to see this continued. I have some ideas up my sleeve ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated birthday to me :) I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! There should be two-ish more to come.

They spend the rest of the afternoon setting up Dean’s bedroom.

It feels odd, adjusting his space for another person to inhabit it. Castiel has lived a solitary life ever since he left his coven, and now, to have Dean moving in for an indeterminate amount of time…

There’s a tingling feeling low in his stomach that he can’t quite put a name to.

He distracts himself by working to make sure that the previously-untouched spare bedroom is as perfect as it can be for Dean. Despite his injuries, though, Dean insists on helping, donning the t-shirt and sweatpants Cas got him and setting about opening the windows and dusting off the furniture.

Castiel refrains from pointing out that he could have the whole place cleaned with a few words and a wave of his hands—it’s nicer working side-by-side with Dean, watching with amusement as he examines every single ward and spell that he comes across. He’s got an uncanny knack for pinpointing Castiel’s magic.

“What’s with all the protective spells?” Dean asks as he runs his fingers along the windowsill, apparently drawn back to the wards imbued into the wooden frames.

“You can never be too careful,” Castiel mutters as he grapples with the fresh bedsheets. He’s forbidden Dean from helping with this part, since he needs to heal and maneuvering the stubborn sheets and heavy mattress won’t help that. “I would rather over-ward than under-ward my house. No one can even get onto my property without my explicit permission, and even then I’d probably have to let down some of the protective spells.”

He grunts as he finally manages to get the fitted sheet over the last corner, then straightens up and stretches out his back. Between last night’s work in the garden and now this, it’s not feeling too happy with him.

When he looks up at Dean, the familiar is watching him, an expression on his face that is some uncanny combination of curiosity and amusement.

“How did I get in, then?”

And isn’t that just the sixty-four-dollar question. Castiel certainly has a theory as to why that was the case, but knowing now that Dean may have had a bad experience with other witches in the past… he doesn’t want to push his bonding theory on him at all, even if it’s the one that makes the most sense.

Instead, he shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. I guess you’re special,” he says with a half-smile.

Dean returns it, all softness and calm where he stands haloed by the afternoon light, dressed in Castiel’s most comfortable clothes and already looking like he belongs perfectly right here. “I guess I am,” he says quietly.

They finish cleaning up Dean’s room—Castiel gets fed up with the process of dusting manually and ends up finishing it all with his magic—and step back to survey their handiwork. The room is all soft tones and bare wood, the bed centered against the far wall. It’s not a big room by any means, but it still feels homely with the rustic touches and the few houseplants that Castiel had moved in to give Dean company.

From the quiet joy on the familiar’s face, it’s more than enough.

“You like it?” Castiel double checks, leaning against the doorframe and watching Dean as he takes in the room, in all its clean, newly furnished glory. Dean can’t stop looking at everything, and it seems like an effort for him to drag his gaze away and look back at Castiel. His gaze is soft, mouth curled up into a gentle smile that makes Castiel’s heart skip a beat. It feels like he’s known this man for years already.

“It’s perfect, Cas. Thank you. It’s more than I could have ever asked for.”

There’s a shine to Dean’s eyes that Castiel feels he probably shouldn’t point out, but it warms his heart to know just how much Dean loves his new space. “It’s yours for as long as you want it,” he says quietly—then changes the subject before he accidentally pushes Dean too far. “Are you hungry?”

Dean’s stomach rumbles in answer, and his fragile smile turns into a grin. “I think that’s your answer.”

They end up in the kitchen, Dean perched up on a countertop and watching with amusement as Castiel cooks. He’s just putting together some sandwiches, nothing too fancy, but if he ends up using his magic a little more than he usually would, just for the look on Dean’s face as his condiments fly through the air and assemble themselves on their own…

Well, it’s been a while since Castiel has had someone to show off to.

“How are you feeling?” he asks as they sit down to eat at the table where, mere hours ago, he’d consumed his breakfast in blissful ignorance of what the day had in store.

“Honestly?” Dean picks his sandwich up with both hands and takes a bite out of it, as if he simply can’t wait to eat it. “I feel fuckin’ wiped,” he says around his mouthful. “Can’t remember the last time I slept properly.”

Castiel feels the corners of his mouth pull down. What kind of life has Dean been living, where he doesn’t sleep enough or eat enough and turns up covered in wounds?

“Well, you’re welcome to sleep for as long as you need today,” he tells Dean with a smile before taking a bite out of his own sandwich.

Dean grins—then makes a visible effort to chew and swallow his food before speaking again. “Thanks, Cas. I really can’t tell you how much I appreciate you helping me out. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t collapsed in your garden.”

“It really is serendipitous that you found me,” Castiel agrees quietly. He’s not entirely convinced that it was mere luck that led Dean here—fate and magic have a funny way of working together sometimes. “All that matters now, though, is that you’re safe. Whatever situation you were in before, it’s not an issue now, and you have time to get back on your feet.”

At Castiel’s words, Dean’s gaze drops down to the table. He doesn’t look entirely convinced, and his smile gives way to a faint frown. “Yeah,” he says, quietly and unconvincingly.

He doesn’t say any more on the matter, and Castiel doesn’t ask, but concern and worry settle in his stomach at Dean’s clear uneasiness, and he files the information away for a later date. Right now, Dean needs to focus on getting better, not on whatever it is he was running from.

They finish the rest of their late lunch in what fades into a comfortable silence, the two of them eating their sandwiches and simply enjoying the companionship of the other without the need for words. Once they’re done, Dean insists on washing up the dishes by hand, even though he’s nearly swaying on his feet, and it takes all of Castiel’s self-control not to just clean them with a spell. He hasn’t known Dean for very long, but he gets the feeling that it would make the familiar very unhappy.

Once the plates are clean, though, Castiel puts his foot down. “You should sleep,” he tells Dean, his voice gentle but with just enough steel behind it to let Dean know that this isn’t something he can argue. From the smile that pulls at Dean’s lips, and the amusement in his eyes, he’s well aware of that.

“Yes, Cas,” he says, saluting with a lazy flick of fingers to his temple. “You’re the boss.”

He’s hardly the boss—it wouldn’t take much for Dean to persuade him of anything, he doesn’t think—but in this particular situation, he _is_ the expert. The limited amount of healing knowledge (and common sense) he has is telling him that if Dean doesn’t go to bed right now, he’s going to end up passing out on Castiel’s kitchen floor.

Castiel follows Dean to the spare room— _Dean’s_ room now, he has to keep reminding himself—and hovers while he gets into bed. Despite moving like his limbs are leaden, Dean still manages to swat playfully in Castiel’s direction as he climbs beneath the covers. “I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping. You don’t need to babysit me for every second.” His tone is light, letting Castiel know that he’s joking, and it’s so nice to have such an easy rapport with somebody that Cas can’t help but smile.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Dean’s eyelids are already drooping now that his head is resting on a real pillow. “Yeah,” he sighs. “God, that feels good. Gon’ sleep for a while. Night, Cas…”

And then his eyes close and he’s asleep, just like that. All the stress and worry lines smooth from his face, and he looks so _young_ , so _peaceful_ , lying there in the bed with the covers pulled up to his chin.

Castiel watches him for a few long moments, then leaves the room on silent feet.

He uses the time while Dean is sleeping to catch up on the herb storage he’d meant to get done today. While he’s working, he keeps his magic attuned to the other parts of the house—namely, the bedroom where Dean is resting, dead to the world. If he wakes up, or if there’s anything he needs, or anything wrong, Castiel wants to know in a heartbeat.

Storing his herbs, though, gives him the time he needs to let his mind slow down and switch off. After everything that’s happened today, and all the new information he’s been faced with, the quiet routine helps to settle both his hands and the magic that buzzes insistently beneath his skin. No person has ever agitated it like this before, and he _knows_ why that is, but he also knows that there’s nothing he can do about it right now. It’s keeping him on edge, and every time that it gets too much, he leans back, takes a few deep breaths, and then loses himself in the rhythmic, repetitive chore once again.

Dean sleeps soundly until the sun has disappeared beneath the horizon and Castiel has lit his workshop with his own magic to combat the darkness of nightfall. He’s notified as soon as the familiar stirs, and he’s so deep into this preservation spell that the reminder startles him. He loses his threads on the spell, and the golden orb of light that had been floating over his right shoulder fizzles out.

“Damn it,” Castiel mutters, creating a new light with a flick of his fingers. The spell is a lost cause for now—he’ll need to start it from the beginning, and for that he needs to be able to concentrate, and he can’t achieve that now that he knows Dean is stirring.

He sits back on his stool and closes his eyes, listening to the creak of his house and the gentle sound of the wind outside. Nothing stirs, but his magic tells him that Dean is semi-awake, still hovering on the cusp of sleep. It’s only been a few hours, and Dean needs more rest, so hopefully he’ll fall back under soon enough.

The orb above his shoulder follows him when he stands up and packs up the rest of his supplies that are still to be stored or organized, bathing the room in a golden glow that spins and shifts every time it moves. The rest of his storage can wait until tomorrow, when the daylight has returned and Castiel isn’t feeling quite so exhausted and overwhelmed by the knowledge that there is now an injured, beautiful, _compatible_ familiar staying in his house.

He fixes himself another simple sandwich in the kitchen to make up for the fact that he’d forgotten to make himself dinner, so lost had he been in his own thoughts and his work, then moves in the direction of his room. Before he makes it there, though, he can’t help but pause in the hallway outside Dean’s room.

When he presses his hand against the door, Castiel can feel that Dean is deeply asleep once again, his slumber still and dreamless. The familiar’s presence pulls him in, even from the other side of the door, attracting Castiel’s magic like a siren’s song until his entire body feels as though it resonates with Dean’s heartbeat—

He pulls his hand back from the door as though he’s been burned and stares at his palm for several long seconds, then forces his feet into movement and continues down the hallway.

Even without his magic monitoring Dean, as he lies in his bed alone and stares up at the ceiling, sleep is a long time coming for Castiel.

~~~

Despite his restless descent into sleep the night before, Castiel sleeps solidly and well into the next morning. It’s only when the edge of the sunlight begins to creep across his bed that he wakes, blinking dozily against the new day and unsticking his face from his pillow. Again, it’s unusual for him to sleep this late, but instead of feeling sluggish or overtired, he feels…

Surprisingly well-rested.

For a few seconds, the feeling puzzles him, until he catches a glimpse of fur at the end of his bed and all the events of yesterday come rushing back to him. Everything slots into place.

He props himself up on his elbows and blinks the last of the bleariness from his eyes, then takes a few seconds just to watch the familiar. Dean’s fur rises and falls with his breathing, his head resting comfortably on his paws and his body stretched out as though he feels totally at ease sleeping on the end of Castiel’s bed. The wounds on his body look to be healing well—on his animal form, at least—and he’s clearly still sleeping off the worst of his injuries and exhaustion if he remains sound asleep so many hours later.

The question Castiel has to ask, though, is why is Dean here, asleep on the end of Castiel’s bed, instead of in his own bed in the room they so painstakingly prepared for him yesterday?

Whatever the reason, that’s a question that can wait until Dean wakes up. For now, Castiel leans back against his pillows and half-closes his eyes, letting that feeling of serenity and calm wash over him. Even without Dean’s touch, his presence alone is enough to affect Castiel like this, and as he lies there in his drowsy wakefulness, he can’t help but wonder about the strength of their bond. How _good_ of a pair they could be, and all the things they could achieve as a team.

But that’s not an option yet, and it’s also not his decision to make.

He dozes for a while longer, until his body has had enough rest, and then keeps himself entertained by playing around with his magic. His excuse for the small indulgence is that little tricks like this help him with his control, hone his focus and strengthen his capabilities, but… really, he does it because he enjoys himself. As he lies in bed and looks up at the ceiling, he creates sparks and lights that dance and float through the air, turning different colours in a beautiful display.

The lights form themselves into the shape of a bird with a flick of Castiel’s fingers, and he sends it wheeling gracefully around the room with little more than a thought. Its wings spread out wide as it flies, the perfect image of poise and beauty, and he follows it around the room with his gaze.

At the end of the bed, Dean makes a quiet noise in his sleep, and Castiel’s control slips. The bird dissolves back into the individual lights and sparks, but Castiel is quick to sharpen his control before they disappear. They reform themselves into a jellyfish that floats serenely in the air above Castiel’s bed, then into a butterfly, sparks spiraling out into the air and disappearing with every flutter of its wings.

Castiel lets the butterfly float around for a bit, pondering which animal to create next, and when he glances over at the familiar sleeping at the end of his bed, he finds two green eyes staring back at him.

His focus shatters, and the butterfly melts away in a shower of sparks that rain down onto the covers of his bed and flicker out of existence.

Once the surprise has worn off, he says, quietly, “Good morning, Dean.”

Dean blinks back at him, those eyes so humanlike in an animal’s body. There’s a moment of hesitance, and then a flash of green-gold light, and Dean is sitting on the end of Castiel’s bed in his human form—still in the clothes he went to sleep in last night, thankfully.

“Morning,” comes the sleep-roughened reply, but Dean won’t look at him, his eyes dropping down to the covers. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I, uh… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have... y’know, come into your room. I just couldn’t sleep.”

Castiel sits up—thankfully, he’d decided to wear boxers to bed, seeing as he currently has a guest in his house—and the covers pool around his waist. “Dean,” he says, softly but insistently, “it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Dean looks up through his lashes, and his cheeks blush faintly pink. “You sure?” He shifts in place, almost like he’s curling in on himself. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be mad. I’m not really used to being around people right now, but I get these fuckin’ nightmares, y’know?”

It’s a feeling that Castiel is certainly familiar with. “I’m not mad,” he confirms, giving Dean a reassuring smile. “If being around me feels half as comforting as being around you does, I understand why you sought me out. I’m not bothered by it.”

Dean searches his eyes for a long moment, as if he’s trying to figure out whether Castiel is being truthful. Finally, his lips curl up into the faintest of smiles. “Okay,” he says quietly. And then, his smile growing, “Those animals were really cool. It looked so easy for you, too.”

Castiel shrugs one shoulder. “It is easy. For me, at least—I’ve always been very in tune with my magic. You said it yourself that I was strong,” he points out.

The look he gets from Dean is one of awe and intrigue. It’s a novelty to receive a positive reaction like that, instead of the wariness and the jealousy that he’s accustomed to. “I did, you’re right,” Dean acknowledges with a crooked smile. “I’m curious to see what other tricks you have up your sleeve, then.”

It would be so easy to show off for Dean, to impress him with every trick Castiel has ever learned or taught himself, every spell from every long-forgotten spellbook and the rarest plants to ever grow on this earth. But to do so would be boastful and entirely self-indulgent, so all he says, with a shameless grin, is, “I suppose you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “I guess I will,” he replies, and his voice is so rough and sultry that Castiel has to clear his throat and ensure that the covers are securely bunched in his lap. From the cheeky wink Dean gives him, the familiar knows exactly the effect that he’s having on Castiel, the way that their occasional flirtatious back-and-forth gets his heart racing in a way that it hasn’t for years.

“Damn it,” he mutters quietly, and hears Dean chuckle. Damn the man’s keen hearing as well. Before Castiel can make any more of a fool out of himself before he’s even gotten out of bed, he decides that it’s time to redirect.

“How about we make some breakfast and figure out what we’re doing today before I embarrass myself any more?” he asks wryly, and this time Dean rewards him with a proper laugh, one that rings out across the room and makes Castiel’s magic dance beneath his skin.

“You’re fine, Cas.” Dean leans back on his hands and grins. “But yeah, breakfast sounds good. I could eat a horse.”

They end up in the kitchen, Castiel now dressed in more than just boxers and Dean still getting used to being back in his human skin after spending so much time as a dog. They’re an odd pair—reclusive witch and acclimatizing familiar—but somehow, it works. Conversation flows easily between them, and the silences are just as comfortable.

As they cook breakfast together, Castiel takes a second to marvel at just how well they work as a pair. Dean has a good nose for balancing ingredients, whereas Castiel has the practical skill of having cooked for himself for many years. The familiar still watches with a hint of amusement in his eyes as Cas floats pans and eggs and salt shakers around the kitchen, but otherwise they fall into an easy, coexisting rhythm that honestly makes Castiel wonder how well that compatibility will carry over into other areas.

Today is certainly going to give him an opportunity to find out.

“Would you like to help me in the garden today?” he asks once they’re halfway through their breakfast, Dean sitting across the table from him with an expression of pure bliss on his face as he practically inhales his breakfast.

Dean shrugs one shoulder in response, then swallows his mouthful so he can actually reply. “Yeah, sure. Looked pretty nice from what I can remember before I passed out in it,” he says with a grin. “Plus, I’ve gotta earn my keep somehow, right?”

Castiel frowns. “You know you don’t have to work in order to stay here, Dean. You’re still injured, even if you are healing quickly. It’ll take you a few days at least to be back to your full strength. I don’t expect you to be working yourself to the bone just for food and board.”

The look he gets in return is soft and fond and amused, the corners of Dean’s mouth curving upwards and his eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s a good look on Dean. “Yeah, Cas, I know,” he says, folding his forearms on the table and leaning forward just slightly. “But I _want_ to help. It feels wrong, just sitting around and watching you do all the work. Besides, you clearly love your garden a lot, and I’m honoured that you trust me enough to help me with it, so.”

He has a point, there. Castiel has never even _shown_ anyone his garden, let alone gotten them to help with maintaining it, so the fact that he had asked for Dean’s assistance so easily, without even thinking…

He blinks in surprise. _Huh_.

“I suppose you’re right,” he admits with a smile of his own. “In that case, I would be glad to have your help, as long as you don’t work yourself too hard. I’m no healer, but I can at least tell when things are getting too much for you, so don’t try to sneak it past me.”

“I would never.” Dean holds his hands up innocently, but his grin tells a different story—it’s cheeky and shameless and so _bright_ that Castiel’s heart beats double-time in his chest.

“Sure you wouldn’t,” he mutters as he stands to clear away the dirty dishes, just loud enough that Dean can hear it.

The familiar’s laugh resonates through his soul and his magic even as Castiel turns away from the table, a smitten smile playing on his lips.

~~~

If his garden is Castiel’s favourite place to be in the whole world, then having Dean here with him only makes it better.

When the two of them step off the back porch, Castiel’s plants respond immediately, reaching out to them and emanating a feeling of _welcome_ , of _belonging_ and  _love_. Dean doesn’t seem to feel it, since he wanders off a little ways down the path, but it hits Castiel so hard that he has to pause for a second so he can process it. He’s so in tune with his plants that it takes a few seconds for him to be able to dull the sensations swamping his mind.

“You coming, Cas?”

Dean’s voice snaps him out of it, and the energy he’s getting from his plants quietens. “Yes,” he says, crossing the distance between him and Dean before he can get stuck in his own head again. “Sorry, I got, uh… distracted.”

“I saw.” Dean smiles, his head half-turned away so that Castiel only catches the corner of it. “So you planted all this yourself? And you maintain it all yourself?” He gestures to the garden as a whole—the flowers of a celandine plant beneath Dean’s sweeping hand flutter towards him in a golden wave, then settle once more when he drops his hand. Castiel frowns at them.

“I—yes,” he says distractedly. “I planted everything when I moved into my house. It’s all grown and maintained with the help of my magic, but I still do a lot of a physical labour. It’s soothing.”

Dean hums. “Sounds like it would be,” he says quietly, and doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he continues on down the path, looking at Castiel’s plants and touching the leaves of a few, which shiver once he’s passed. Castiel levels a stern finger at the patch of celandine. “Behave yourselves,” he warns, and broadcasts the message to his whole garden. Whatever it’s up to, he doesn’t need it freaking Dean out or scaring him away.

He’s also never seen any of his plants react so strongly to _anything_ , except on the night of the full moon or when Castiel’s magic is particularly powerful. The fact that Dean is eliciting such a strong reaction… well, it’s no surprise, if Dean is as compatible of a familiar as Castiel suspects he is.

Castiel follows after Dean, the two of them walking in companionable silence. This time, the plants they pass don’t give such a visible reaction to Dean, since Castiel is keeping a close eye on them. They wander through the flowerbeds and herb gardens and past the grove of fruit trees, where Dean plucks a single, perfectly-ripe peach from a tree that definitely hadn’t been bearing any fruit yesterday.

“Really?” Castiel mutters under his breath, and Dean grins as he bites into his peach.

“I guess your garden must like me. It’s kinda magical, right? I can feel you all through it.”

They pause by the edge of the pond, beneath the wisteria that sways her branches gently in Dean’s direction despite there being no breeze at all. Castiel can’t help but smile. “Yes, it’s magical, and yes, they do like you. They sheltered you and let me know that you were here, after all, so I think they’re glad to see you back up on your feet.”

Dean blinks at Castiel for a few seconds, then turns to look at the parts of the garden they’ve just walked through. “Shit,” he says, sounding a little surprised. “I was kinda joking about that. You mean they all have thoughts and feelings and stuff? For real?”

“It’s not quite as simple as that.” Castiel reaches out towards the wisteria, which bows one of its branches and skims the end of its flowers over his outstretched palm. “They’re imbued with my magic, and I can communicate with them and get general vibes from them, but we don’t hold conversations or anything like that, and they don’t feel emotions like we do. They can’t get mad at me—I don’t _think_ ,” he amends. He drops his hand, and the wisteria sways back into place. “I’m still learning.”

When he looks back over at Dean, the familiar’s eyes are wide and he’s grinning. “That’s so fucking cool,” he says. “So they really do like me?”

Castiel smiles and shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve never seen some of these plants so active of their own accord, so yes, I’d say that’s a safe assumption to make.” _I like you too_ , he wants to add, but there are nervous butterflies in his stomach and he can’t quite get the words out. Instead, he watches as Dean finishes his peach and pockets the pit, wishing that he knew the right words to say, the right steps to take.

From the way that Dean touches every plant with reverence, though, and from the small smile that plays over his lips, Castiel suspects that he knows just how much this garden tour means.

Once Castiel has shown Dean all the way around his garden—with the exception of the greenhouse, since he doesn’t want to run the risk of those plants behaving strangely today too, since some of them are so dangerous—they end up back by the pond. Dean seems happy and relaxed, sprawling out on the grass and watching the clouds go by overhead. The feeling is a familiar one to Castiel, since being out in his garden always calms him.

He does, however, need to get at least a little bit of work done today. The pond has, in recent days, started to lose water, and it’s time for Castiel to reinforce the spells holding it together and keeping the delicate little ecosystem in place. While Dean lazes in the late morning sun, Castiel kneels by the water’s edge and presses his hands into the mud.

Almost immediately, he’s able to pick out the various spells he’s woven into the rocks and the soil. A few of them are starting to fray, and he furrows his brow in an attempt to work out exactly _where_. There’s still so much residual energy from his plants, in their excitement to see and properly meet Dean, that it’s proving difficult for Castiel to get a reading on exactly which part of the complicated spellwork holding the pond together needs to be replaced.

After a few minutes of trying, Castiel growls under his breath in frustration. There’s just too much going on for him to be able to focus properly, and it’s taking far too long to complete what should only be a moderately difficult task.

“Cas?”

Castiel starts, and his eyes fly open, hands lifting out of the mud. The miserable grip he had on the spells fades altogether, and he barely holds back an irritable sigh as he turns to look at Dean.

The familiar is no longer relaxing by the water’s edge, but crouched beside Castiel, watching him with a concerned look on his face. “Is everything okay? You seem kinda… frustrated.”

“Just having trouble figuring out where this spell is fraying,” he mutters, wiping his muddy hands off on the grass. “It shouldn’t be this hard, but since my garden is unreasonably active today, I just can’t fucking concentrate.”

Dean glances out over the water of the pond, then looks back at Castiel. “Well, you brought me out here to help, didn’t you?” The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. “So let me help.”

The more he lets Dean touch his magic, the more enamored he’s going to get with the familiar and the effects that accompany his touch, his assistance. Castiel knows this. In letting Dean help him, it’s very possible that he’s only setting himself up for heartbreak and disappointment in the future.

It doesn’t stop him from saying, “Okay.”

Dean’s smile widens, and he shifts closer to Castiel, so that they’re side-by-side and almost touching. Wordlessly, Castiel offers him the closer hand, palm-up, and presses the other back into the wet earth by the pond. For a second, Dean looks at the offered hand, and then he takes it, his fingers curling warm and strong between Castiel’s own and holding tight.

Immediately, Castiel’s mind calms.

This time, when he searches for the fraying in the spells, the disintegrating parts stand out brighter than he’s ever seen them, and in only a matter of seconds. It’s now so _easy_ that it’s almost exhilarating, and Castiel hears himself laugh breathlessly as though from far away.

Without thinking, he sinks his magic deeper into the spells and focuses on reforming them, weaving them together to be stronger than they ever have before. They knit back together in his mind’s eye, and he can _feel_ them vibrating with power.

Beside him, Dean makes a soft sound, as though it’s been pulled out of his chest, and Castiel immediately comes to his senses.

He opens his eyes and pulls his hand away from Dean’s, breaking the connection. “Shit,” he gasps, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to use you for that, I just needed to see—“

When he looks at Dean, he finds the familiar staring at his hand, where blue-green sparks flicker for a few seconds before fizzling out. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and when he meets Castiel’s gaze, his pupils are blown wide. “Fuck,” he breathes, biting down on his bottom lip. “That felt… fucking hell, Cas.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says again, even though he secretly doesn’t think he is, and that thought scares him, because pairing with Dean had been so _easy_ and made him feel so _strong_. “I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

Dean stares at him for a few more seconds and then, beneath Castiel’s very gaze, seems to come back to himself a little more. “It’s fine,” he says, a little breathlessly. “Really. It felt good, I just wasn’t expecting it, is all.” His mouth curves up into a grin. “Give a guy a little warning next time, okay?”

Castiel examines him closely, trying to figure out if he’s lying or hiding anything, but everything about him seems open and honest. He really isn’t mad about Castiel using him to fine-tune his magic for the spell. “Okay,” he says, and he can’t help the way he smiles at Dean in return.

They both watch as the pond fills itself back up with water to the highest point and the golden fish within swim in circles just beneath the surface, and then Dean looks back over at Castiel.

“So, got anything else you need help with?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celandine: joys to come  
> Wisteria: welcoming


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just managed to get this finished and uploaded before I leave on my trip. I hope you guys like it!
> 
> Enjoy :)

After that day, they seem to fall into an easy rhythm.

They coexist in Castiel’s cottage effortlessly, figuring out how to split the chores and cooking because even though Castiel could complete it all quite easily with his magic, Dean insists on ‘pulling his weight.’ That dynamic translates to the garden as well—Dean assists with whatever manual labour Castiel will let him get away with as he heals, and helps him hone his magic when there are any complicated spells he needs to fix or cast.

Castiel tries not to let that happen too often, and only asks for Dean’s assistance when he really needs it, because he’d never realized just how intoxicating and powerful working with a familiar would be until Dean came into his life. If things don’t work out, if Dean decides not to stay or not to bond… he can’t let himself get used to living like this.

When Dean isn’t helping or hanging around Castiel’s side, he can usually be found napping in the garden in his dog form, perusing the texts in Castiel’s workshop, or soundly asleep in his bed. After the first time he had moved into Castiel’s bedroom and been discovered, he’d seemed hesitant to do it again, even though Cas had assured him it was okay.

It had taken a nightmare so strong that his distress had alerted Castiel’s magic and his plants for Dean to finally acknowledge that he needed the reprieve that Castiel’s presence brought. Even then, he’d had to stand outside Dean’s door and coax him out for almost an hour until Dean had relented and ended up sleeping in Castiel’s bed again.

The man may be damn stubborn, but there’s no one else Castiel would rather share his home with.

So the days pass, heralded in by the sun each morning, and with every sunrise grows Castiel’s fear that today might be the day that Dean decides he’s healed enough and has had enough of Cas’s company. He tries not to think about that, though, and instead focuses on making the most of the time they _do_ have together, however long that might be.

Today, they’re out in the garden once more. Dean is stretched out on the grass, putting together a new trellis for the honeysuckle they’re planning to plant, while Castiel is kneeling by his patch of borage flowers with his hands half-buried in the dirt. They’ve been looking a little sickly the past few days, but Castiel is yet to discern a reason why.

“What are you hiding from me, little plant?” he mutters under his breath, chasing the sense of evasion that he’s getting to see if it can follow it to its roots. There’s no luck, though, and after almost half an hour of examining the plant and the soil and all the spells surrounding it, he gives up. He should be able to tell what’s wrong, because his plants shouldn’t be wilting like this for no reason, but apparently whatever the issue is, he’s not strong enough to find it.

Which means he needs to call in the cavalry.

“Dean?” he calls, looking over to where the familiar is sitting, shirtless and barefoot and surrounded by pieces of wood that he’s putting together into the trellises. “Can I get your help for a second?”

Dean looks up, and he’s relaxed and smiling and freckled from the sun, and Castiel’s heart thuds helplessly in his chest. “Yeah, of course. What’s up?”

Castiel sits back on his heels and gestures helplessly at the patch of borage. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong with these plants,” he says, frustration lacing his tone. “I can’t find any sickness or infestation or weaknesses in the spells that keep them flourishing, so I have no idea why they’re wilting like this. I might be able to get a better idea with your influence helping my magic?”

He says the last bit like it’s a question—even though he and Dean have gotten more used to working together, and even though merging their magics is unlike anything Castiel has ever felt before, it still feels so self-indulgent. Especially with the easy way that Dean says “sure” and Castiel’s magic dances beneath his skin.

Dean rises from the ground with all the easy grace of a wild animal and wanders over to Castiel. He’s freckling in the sun, little dots dusted over his cheeks and across his shoulders, and Castiel wants to kiss every single one of them. Dean would surely be sun-warmed and soft, and the ache Castiel feels in his fingers to _touch_ is almost irresistible.

Still, as the familiar crouches beside him by the plant and smiles, Castiel knows that he _can’t_. He has to be patient—he can’t risk whatever it is they have between them.

Instead, he asks, “are you ready?” and instead of answering him, Dean puts his hand straight on top of Castiel’s and guides it back down to the soil. The connection thrums to life once again and Castiel lets the clarity wash over him, sinking deep into his bones as his magic thrums powerfully within him. “ _Gods_ ,” he breathes quietly, closing his eyes for a second.

Dean’s fingers flex against Castiel’s hand, and for a second, he wonders what the familiar feels when they do this. If it’s the same, or if it’s different for Dean because he doesn’t possess the same kind of magic as Castiel.

And then Dean clears his throat quietly, and Cas is reminded that he called Dean over here for a _reason_ , and they have a job to do. He opens his eyes to concentrate on the plant in front of him once again, but when he does—

He finds that the borage flowers are already coming alive again, turning up towards the sun and becoming greener in front of their very eyes. In only a few seconds, they’re back to their former selves, rippling happily in the still air from the magnified touch of Castiel’s magic.

Well then.

Dean seems to notice it too, because he gives an amused chuckle and reaches out with his free hand to tilt a single flower towards the sun. “Would you look at that,” he muses. “Did you even do anything there? I swear I didn’t feel you cast a spell or poke at anything.”

The comment makes Castiel pause for a second. Dean can feel when Castiel uses his magic? He’s never really given much thought to the familiar’s side of a bond, since he never thought he’d end up with one, but this makes him curious as to just how things work on Dean’s end. Now isn’t the time for that, though.

“No, I didn’t do anything.” He spreads his fingers into the soil and frowns. “They just perked back up all on their own.” He has a few suspicions as to why—conniving little bastards.

 _If and when I ask Dean to be my familiar,_ Castiel thinks pointedly,  _it will not be influenced by anything, so stop… trying to set us up._

The borage flowers flutter their leaves innocently at him.

“You did say that your garden likes me,” Dean says with a grin brighter than the sun. Even when Castiel gives him a _look_ , barely able to conceal his own fond smile, it doesn’t fade. Dean’s hand is warm over Castiel’s, and they hold eye contact for a few long moments, until Dean’s smile starts to fade and his tongue slides out to wet his bottom lip.

Castiel pulls his hand away, and the connection breaks.

“It does, yes,” he says, trying to ignore the slightly crestfallen look on Dean’s face as the familiar sits back in the grass and pulls his hand into his lap. “Perhaps your touch helped it to fix whatever was ailing it. Either way…” He smiles, trying to ease the effects of the abrupt end to the connection. “Thank you for helping me.”

Dean gives him a small half-smile and crosses his legs underneath him. “Anytime,” he says. He’s holding his hand—the one that had held Castiel’s—cradled in his lap, and Cas can’t help but watch as he runs the fingers of his other hand absent-mindedly over his palm. He seems to be caught in his own thoughts, thinking deeply about something, and Castiel simply waits patiently in case there’s more he has to say.

There’s a little hitch in Dean’s breath, and Castiel tilts his head curiously. “Cas, I—” Dean starts, and then he looks up and makes eye contact with Castiel. In that moment, he can see so many emotions in Dean’s eyes, but before he can really put a finger on any of them—

Dean drops his gaze again. “Never mind,” he says, and his lips twist into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Castiel aches to know what he was going to say, or what he was thinking in that moment, but it feels as though it’s already passed. Dean asks, “What do you want for lunch?”

The moment is gone, but Castiel doesn’t forget.

~~~

The beautifully sunny morning gives way to an overcast afternoon, and by the time that the evening is creeping in, the wind is picking up and Castiel can feel the pricklings of a storm on the horizon. It’s been a while since one last passed through, and the respite has been nice, but he’s gotten complacent.

Dean has spent most of the afternoon on the couch in their lounge room, reading one of Castiel’s old books, but if he notices the witch’s anxious, slightly frantic energy, he doesn’t comment. Most of the wards that need to be renewed are in Castiel’s workshop, anyway, so he’s able to stay away from Dean and not arouse any suspicions.

He’s managed to keep it this long without Dean finding out how much of a freak he is—he doesn’t want to ruin that now.

The sky outside is truly beginning to darken with the imposing layer of clouds that are travelling ever closer and the setting of the sun. Castiel magics them both up a simple dinner, quickly enough that Dean won’t notice he’s done so, because even though he’s rapidly running out of time, he needs to make sure that everything seems _normal_. Even if it very well may not be by the end of tonight.

“Everything okay?” Dean asks as Castiel enters the lounge room with his plate of food. With no idea how long the storm will last, Castiel has already eaten a decently-sized dinner, but he wants to make sure Dean is fed and looked after first before he disappears.

The plate makes a quiet _clink_ as Castiel sets it down on the coffee table by Dean’s chair.

“Fine,” he says, forcing a smile. Occasions like this are hard enough to weather when he’s alone—he has no idea how his magic is going to react to the storm now that there’s such a powerful, compatible familiar nearby. “I’m going to, um, do some work for the evening. It’ll probably take me awhile. Do you need anything else?”

Dean sets his book down against his chest and smiles up at Castiel. “Nah, I’m good,” he says. “I can fend for myself.” A little crease appears between his brows, and he tilts his head curiously. “You need any help with that work?”

“No!” Castiel bites out—too quickly.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Okay…” he says, drawing out the word. It’s clear that he’s puzzled by Castiel’s defensiveness, but if he’s looking for an explanation, he’s not going to get one. Not tonight, anyway.

But Castiel  _does_ scrub a hand over his face and say, “Sorry.” He can feel the storm creeping in already, feel it prickling insistently at the edges of his magic, and he knows he doesn’t have much time left. “I’ll be busy the rest of the evening, so I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Dean is still watching him, concern evident in those green eyes and his head tilted just a little to the side—a remnant behaviour of all the time he’s spent in his dog form. “Okay,” he says quietly. “You know where to find me if you need me, though.”

“Thanks,” Castiel says, and he can’t delay any longer now. He turns on his heel and walks out of the room without looking back, away from Dean’s curiosity and worry and the gaze he feels burning into his back until he turns the corner and disappears from Dean’s sight.

Some of the tension leaves his body, and he huffs out a sigh, then runs his hands through his hair. This is the worst part about his powers—the reason he lives alone, the reason that his old coven was so damn wary of him. He’s powerful, yes, but he’s also _dangerous_ and _uncontrollable_ and it’s taken him years to find even some modicum of a solution.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and Castiel’s breath hitches in his chest. Without delay, he makes his way through the house to his workshop. The magic in here is so strong that he can almost feel it like a tangible presence in the air, a crackle like lightning across his tongue that is only going to get stronger as the night wears on.

Since he lives alone, the door to his workshop very rarely gets closed, but now he pushes the heavy, warded, wood and iron door into place and bolts it closed with a solid-sounding _thunk_ that echoes around the room.

He’s locked in.

The rain begins as he’s pressing his hands against the door and properly activating each one of the wards and spells he’s set up for the occasions exactly like this—wards designed to keep his magic contained. It spatters against the glass and the roof above, slowly and sparsely at first, but then heavier, until it’s lashing against the window and thundering against the tin roof.

Castiel watches the unyielding wind bend through his garden, tree limbs bowing beneath it amongst the darkness. He watches the heavens open and the steel-grey storm clouds gather overhead, and then he closes the shutters over the single window and bolts them into place, plunging himself into darkness.

All it takes to light the room is a single thought, and four orbs of light blink into existence over his upturned palms. They glow, gentle and yellow, for a few seconds, then float away to the four corners of the room where they brighten enough to light the whole workshop.

Everything valuable is securely locked away, and everything breakable has been moved covertly into a trunk beneath his bed. Castiel’s workshop is bare, but that’s how it needs to be. He walks over to the bench against the far wall and lowers himself to the ground, sitting with his back leaning against the drawers and his legs crossed underneath him.

Of all the methods he’s tried over the years, all the disproven theories and failed solutions, there are only a handful of things that help in a situation like this. Most of it is prevention—barricading himself into a heavily warded space where he can’t cause any damage and shutting himself away from the outside world. That way, he keeps his magic contained as much as possible when he does, inevitably, lose control.

The only other thing he’s found to be any use at all is meditation, and that’s why now he closes his eyes and rests his hands gently in his lap. The storm is gathering strength outside, thunder rumbling in the distance, but he focuses on his breathing and on calming his mind.

_In._

_Out._

For a few minutes, he just breathes, trying a keep a hold on the power inside of him that is responding to the storm, to this behemoth of nature that feeds it until it is completely out of Castiel’s control. This time, though, he feels slightly more calm, although he won’t truly know if it has helped until the storm has reached him, which feels as though it’s now only minutes away.

When he opens his eyes and looks down at his hands, there are sparks coiling over his skin, dancing agitatedly between his fingers and over his palms and all the way up to his forearms where they eventually fizzle out.

 _Fuck_. 

He closes his eyes again and tries to breathe, to _focus_ and _control_ , but it’s too late.

The storm is upon him.

The window may be closed, so Castiel doesn’t _see_ the first lightning strike, but he feels it light him up from the inside. His magic dances across his skin, pooling at his fingertips and trying desperately to escape. He curls his hands into fists and squeezes them so tightly that his nails cut crescent moons into his palms, but the sparks fixate on the tiny wounds and heal them almost as soon as they appear.

His control is slipping, and he makes a tiny, desperate noise in his chest; moments later, it is swallowed up by the thunder that reverberates through the house.

Hopefully the storm will pass by soon, but from how agitated Castiel’s magic is, he suspects that that won’t be the case. With every strike of lightning outside and every rumble of thunder that seems to shake Castiel’s very bones, he can feel his control slipping, until he just can’t hold it any longer.

He can _feel_ the lightning coursing through him, racing up his spine and setting his whole body alight. His magic _dances_ , invigorated and uncontrollable, and he feels something like electricity race down his arms, to his hands and then his fingertips.

It’s impossible to hold back any more; his magic explodes outwards at the same time as the thunder breaks overhead.

The dam has been broken, his control is gone, and now there’s nothing Castiel can do to stop his magic as it responds to the raw power of the storm overhead. He opens his eyes and watches helplessly as the blue-green sparks thicken around his hands, glowing strongly enough now to rival the light of the orbs in each corner.

Around every available surface of his workshop, roots and vines are sprouting from the wood and growing up over the benches and countertops, twisting over Castiel’s work space with almost impossible speed until everything is covered. No matter how hard Castiel tries, he can’t get them to disappear, or even to stop growing—his magic has taken on a mind of its own now, as it does during every storm or earthquake or fire or blizzard.

Another bolt of lightning strikes outside, and before Castiel’s very eyes, every single plant that has grown in the last minute turns to perfectly clear glass.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath, and curls his hands into trembling fists. “Not, this again, please, not the glass—“

His plea is cut off halfway through when the storm surges once again, thunder almost immediately shaking the very foundations of the house, and every single piece of glass in the room shatters.

Castiel throws his arms over his head instinctively in an attempt to protect himself from the shards, but none of the glass hits him—a small miracle. When he opens his eyes again, all the shattered glass is gone, replaced by blue-green sparks that litter the floor and then fizzle out before his very eyes.

He has no idea what his magic will do next, and he doesn’t get a chance to find out.

All of a sudden, the relentless beat of rain and the roar of the storm outside is interrupted by a pounding on the door.

“Cas?” Dean calls, barely audible over the rolling thunder and the pounding of Castiel’s blood in his ears. “Cas, are you there? All the lightbulbs in the house just exploded, what the hell is going on?”

“Go away!” Castiel shouts, tucking his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around them. It’s been so long since he’s weathered any kind of natural phenomenon or disaster with anyone nearby, and he’d forgotten how crippling it feels, how much of a fucking freak he is for not being able to control his own magic.

Dean is silent for a moment, and Castiel watches the door, knowing that the familiar is just on the other side. He wishes he knew what Dean was thinking, but there’s no way to know.

Finally, Dean speaks again. This time, his words are quieter, but they come in a gap between the thunder, so he only has to compete with the drumming of the rain. “Please let me in,” he says from the other side of the door. “Please, Cas, I’m worried about you. What’s going on in there?”

 _There’s no way_. Castiel presses his forehead against his knees and squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t want you to see me like this,” he chokes out, quietly enough that Dean shouldn’t be able to hear him.

There’s a long pause, and then a gentle thud that sounds like Dean resting his forehead against the heavy door. “Do you trust me?” he says, softly enough that Castiel has to strain to hear him.

_Do you trust me?_

When he’d arrived, Dean had been injured and vulnerable and scared, and when Castiel had offered him a place to stay, he’d put his trust in Cas. Perhaps now it’s time for Castiel to do the same.

He exhales a shuddering breath, then uncurls himself from his balled-up position on the floor and stands. With every step he takes, flowers sprout from the wooden floor in the shape of his footprints: aster, bellflowers, protea, daffodils. His feet carry him to the door, and when he presses his hands against the wood and leans his forehead gently against it, tiny purple lilacs sprout between his fingers, the sparks of his magic dancing around them.

When he reaches for the bolt holding the door closed, more of the flowers spring up around the iron. Castiel knows what they mean, _exactly_ , what they mean, but even though it scares him…

He takes a deep breath, then pulls back the bolt.

Castiel steps out of the way, and the door swings open of its own accord, as though magnetized, to reveal Dean standing on the other side. He’s close to the threshold, hands still half raised as though he’d been touching the door, and Castiel manages to catch a hint of green flowers and leaves on Dean’s side of the door before they disappear back into the wood. The cut on Dean’s forehead catches Castiel’s attention too quickly for him to be able to focus on the flowers, and his stomach flips nauseously.

The familiar takes a half-step forward and lowers his hands, although the worried expression doesn’t leave his face. “Cas? You alright?”

What a loaded question that is. Castiel’s lips twist bitterly, and he looks down at his hands, still alight and sparking from the sheer uncontrollable power of his own magic. “No,” he says simply, because that’s the simplest answer. “I, uh. I don’t do well with storms.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Are you the reason all our lightbulbs just shattered?”

A beat passes, and then Cas says quietly: “Yes. Storms—and other powerful natural phenomena… they mess with my magic. I’ve never been able to control it.”

As if on cue, Castiel feels his power surge once more, accompanied by a booming clap of thunder. There’s a blue-green flash of light, and Dean stumbles backwards with a yelp. Cas’s hands feel hot, and when he reaches for Dean, electricity sparks between his fingers. Dean is reeling, one hand braced against the wall while the other is held to his forehead, where there is no longer any glass-caused gash. “Jesus,” he gasps out, bringing his hand down to check for blood—there isn’t any, not any more. “I see what you mean.”

 _Dean knows_. Castiel has been stupid, and careless, and now Dean knows. He braces himself for the judgement and the _fear_ that his coven had shown him once his powers had started manifesting like this—out of control, too powerful, too _dangerous_.

Except Dean doesn’t look at him with fear in his eyes. He doesn’t recoil, or call Castiel names, or leave. Instead, he straightens up again and holds his hands out. Gentle. Calming. “Cas,” he says, and even that one syllable washes over Castiel like a breath of fresh air in the midst of this storm. “You can’t keep breaking stuff, okay? Or we won’t have a house left to live in. C’mon, I’m gonna help you.”

It takes Castiel a beat too long to understand what Dean means, and by that time, it’s too late. The familiar has crossed the threshold into his workshop, and even as Castiel watches, as though everything is in slow motion, reaches out to take his hand.

As soon as their palms touch, everything inside Castiel’s mind goes quiet. The roiling storm fades away, and his magic settles to a gentle thrum beneath his skin—happy, as always, to be near Dean.

He isn’t hurting Dean with the power of his magic, unlike every other familiar who has ever tried to help calm Castiel in times like these. Instead, he’s simply standing there, his hand clasped against Castiel’s and eyes closed, luminous sparks dancing across their hands in the semi-darkness of the workshop.

Another clap of thunder rumbles overhead, but this time—and for the first time in years and years—nothing happens. His magic doesn’t break loose. It just settles calmly, like a boat floating across a perfectly still summer lake.

Castiel watches Dean in awe, hardly able to believe that this is really happening, when the familiar opens his eyes again. They’re glowing, just faintly; a soft, luminescent green that send shivers all the way through Castiel’s soul. When their eyes meet, Dean inhales shakily, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he sways minutely closer. “Cas,” he breathes, “you feel…”

“Calm,” Castiel whispers.

“ _Electric_.”

And then Dean’s other hand is curling into the front of Castiel’s shirt, and he’s taking a half-step closer and tilting his head, and there are soft lips against Castiel’s own and now his brain is well and truly short-circuiting.

 _Dean is kissing him_.

And he can’t help but kiss back.

They press closer, Castiel putting his hands on Dean, carefully first but then with more confidence as he slides his fingers into the familiar’s hair, winds one arm around his waist and holds him. Dean kisses desperately, like Castiel is going to disappear right in front of his eyes if he’s not careful. Like he’s drunk on magic and touch and… and whatever emotion it is that’s driving him right now.

Not that Castiel is ready to put a name to his own emotions, not quite yet.

They kiss until they need to break apart to breathe, and even then, they stay close to one another; Dean’s fingers twisted into the front of Castiel’s shirt, and Castiel’s hands resting on the back of his neck and the small of his back. Dean presses their foreheads together, watching Castiel with bright eyes.

Where the storm had been unruly, uncontrollable turbulence, this is destabilizing in an entirely different way. Castiel’s magic hums at Dean’s touch—at his kiss, it _sings_. Every place they’re touching both grounds him and sets him alight, and he’s known that it would be like this from the first time he met Dean in his human form, but the reality of it is so much _more_ , so strong that it steals his breath away.

“Cas?” Dean breathes, the single syllable curling into the minimal space between them and hanging there. There’s uncertainty in his voice, and Castiel hates the sound of it on his lips.

“Yes?” he responds, his voice barely louder than Dean’s, only just audible over the sound of the rain on the roof and the thunder that is gradually moving away into the distance.

Dean’s tongue slides over his bottom lip, and Castiel wants so desperately to kiss him again. “Was that okay?”

Castiel kisses him again.

What starts off slow, as gentle brushes of their lips, slowly escalates until the kisses become more intense, until Castiel’s fingers are gripping Dean’s hair and Dean’s hands are under Castiel’s shirt and all time becomes meaningless as Castiel’s magic thrums between them. Dean is beautiful as they kiss in the near-darkness—Castiel’s lights having long gone out when Dean had stolen every iota of his concentration—and Castiel maps him out with his hands, his mouth, his body.

They’re moving, he realizes belatedly, Dean backing them out of the workshop with slow steps that don’t impede their kisses. Fear spikes in Castiel’s gut as they cross the threshold—the storm still hasn’t passed, and the rest of the house isn’t warded, and what if he’s not in control as he thinks he is—but then Dean is kissing along the line of Castiel’s jaw and all other thoughts leave his head.

They step out into the hallway, and nothing happens. Castiel’s magic stays happily contained by the familiar’s touch, and he breaks away from the kiss to laugh giddily. “Holy shit,” he says.

Dean grins, wide and happy, and then he lets go of Castiel’s shirt and takes his hand instead, leading him down the hall to the bedroom.

The rain has eased now, but it still runs down the windows in heavy rivulets, distorting the waxing light of the moon. Dean is silver and green beauty in the moonlight as he pulls Castiel towards the end of the bed, and his breath catches in his chest. They don’t speak any more, and Castiel kisses Dean again, working his hands up underneath Dean’s shirt to pull it off. It’s slow and unhurried, but still heavy with intent and desire and a passion the likes of which he’s never experienced before.

Dean is his familiar, but he’s also so much more. It’s almost impossible to breathe beneath the weight of that realization, but then Dean is kissing down his neck, deft fingers pushing at the waistband of Cas’s pants, and there’s no more time for thinking. 

Naked and sprawled out on Castiel’s bed, watching with a half-smile and darkened green eyes, Dean is like something out of a fairytale. There are so many freckles dotting his skin that Castiel wants to kiss each and every single one of them, but for now his attention is captured by Dean’s cock, flushed and hard and curving gently up towards his stomach. When he takes Dean into his mouth, the familiar responds beautifully, with curling toes and fingers that grip tightly at Castiel’s hair. His magic vibrates beneath his skin, playing off Dean’s emotions, and while it’s a telling sign of a fledgling bond beginning to form, now is not the time to focus on that.

Instead, Castiel takes his time taking Dean apart, first with his mouth, and then with his fingers, until Dean is clinging to him and _begging_ , Castiel’s name and a desperate _please_ being repeated amongst the sound of the falling rain.

They make love with slow movements and desperate touches, sharing open-mouthed kisses and gasping their pleasure into the air. It’s sweat-damp skin and brand-hot kisses and Castiel never wants this moment to end. Dean is _perfect_ , even more so when he comes, digging his nails into Castiel’s back and muffling his moan with a desperate kiss. With the way he clenches down around Castiel’s cock, it’s impossible for him not to follow soon after.

Castiel feels his magic surge when his orgasm crests, but not in the way that it usually does. It feels softer, tempered by Dean’s presence and his touch and the intimacy of their moment. When he opens his eyes, they’re surrounded by arbutus flowers, growing up from the sheets. His breath hitches, and before his very eyes, the flowers melt into an array of blue and green sparks and settle onto the bed before fading out of existence.

“What were those?” Dean asks, as Castiel cleans them both up with a spell and lies down beside Dean. The familiar turns into his arms easily, without thinking, tucking his head in against Castiel’s shoulder. He’s miles of warm, bare skin, and his touch is _almost_ enough to distract Castiel from the question.

But not quite. “They’re arbutus flowers,” he murmurs against Dean’s hair. _You are the only one that I love_. “I don’t know why my magic manifested like that,” he lies.

Dean is silent for a long moment. “I liked them,” he says eventually, his voice quiet. He wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist and presses closer, tangling their legs together. Even softer, he says, “I like _you_.”

“I like you too, Dean,” he whispers. He feels Dean smile against his shoulder.

For a while, they just doze, cuddled up together in Castiel’s bed. It’s so different from all the nights Dean has spent here, curled up in his dog form right on the end, and Castiel has to say that this arrangement is much more preferable.

Outside, the rain slows, until it’s nothing more than a light pitter-patter on the roof. Castiel’s thoughts go round and round his mind, idly thinking things over in his semi-awake state.

“Dean?” he mumbles, first gauging whether the familiar is awake. The question gets him a sleepy “mmhm?” and a pair of green eyes blinking up at him.

“How are you so strong?” he asks quietly. “So many familiars tried to help me, back in my old coven, but they never could.” He cards his fingers through Dean’s hair, partly to give him something to do and partly to apologize to Dean for waking him up with the stupid questions that Castiel’s brain can’t let go of.

Dean hums, but there’s a faint tension to it that Castiel can’t put him finger on. A long few seconds pass, and then Dean says, so quietly that Cas almost misses it: “I’m a Winchester.”

A _Winchester_. One of the few rare and powerful bloodlines of familiars still present in North America, and Dean belongs to them. No wonder he’s able to calm Castiel’s strong magic, let alone deal with it when it’s completely out of control. He can’t help but suck in a shocked breath.

“I know,” Dean says, before Castiel can say anything. “I know it’s a big deal, okay? But I don’t want you to treat me any different. I’m still me. I still like you, and I hope you like me for _me_ , and not for my bloodline.” He gives Castiel a smile that seems wobbly even in the dark, silvered lighting, as though he’s truly worried that Castiel will think different of him.

“I do,” Cas confirms, ducking his head to press a soft, reassuring kiss to Dean’s lips. “I really do like you, even without knowing your bloodline, Dean.”

_You are the only one that I love._

Dean smiles wider now, and he gives Castiel a quick squeeze around the waist. “Thanks, Cas,” he whispers. They settle back into a comfortable silence, but even though Dean’s eyes close again, Castiel can’t seem to get back to sleep. There are still insistent thoughts making their way around his mind, and while one of them he isn’t going to touch right now, the other is weighing on his mind, especially now that he can feel a shadows of a bond forming between them after what happened tonight. It can never fully form without both of their consent, he knows, but it’s still  _there_ , even if it’s just a fraction of its full strength.

“Dean,” he whispers, tracing his fingers idly in patterns over Dean’s skin so that he doesn’t overthink what he’s about to ask. “Do you think you would ever—“

Dean pre-empts his question—Castiel can feel it in the way he tenses up in his arms, and when he speaks, his voice sounds tight. Tense.

“I can’t.” There’s a long pause before he whispers, “Not yet. Please don’t ask me.”

Castiel tries not to take it too much to heart, even though it feels like he’s having a knife twisted into his gut. “Okay,” he says quietly; after a few seconds, he presses a kiss to Dean’s forehead. “I can wait. However long you need.”

When they finally fall asleep, it’s curled close together beneath the sheets, Dean’s head pillowed against Castiel’s chest and a single sprig of arbutus growing out from the headboard above their heads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borage: courage  
> Aster: symbol of love, trusting  
> Bellflower: unwavering love  
> Protea: courage  
> Daffodil: uncertainty, return my affection  
> Lilac (purple): first emotion of love  
> Arbutus: you are the only one that I love


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from my holiday! But my laptop decided to die, so I'm posting this from the family desktop with its shitty clunky keyboard. Joy! Technology woes aside, though, I hope you guys enjoy finding out more about just why and how Dean ended up in Cas's garden ;) Probably one more chapter to go!

Dean Winchester lives a normal life.

Or, tries to, at least. Being a familiar from one of the most renowned bloodlines in North America makes him just a little different to the average joe, but that’s not ever what he’s wanted for himself. No, Dean just wants to be a normal dude—working at one of the more upmarket bars in the middle of town, and living in an apartment block that’s nothing special but that Dean is happy to call home.

If he’s a normal dude who just so happens to be able to sense magic, be it in people or objects or wardings, well. It’s not something he tries to broadcast, that’s for sure.

But for the most part, he lives just like anyone else. He gets up at a reasonable time every morning to squeeze in a workout if he’s in the mood—or cooks himself a good breakfast and catches up on his shows if he’s feeling lazy. Work at the bar starts in the late afternoon, and he’s there every day without fail, because no matter the lingering feeling of _empty_ and _incomplete_ he sometimes feels in his life, he really fucking loves his job. He has great coworkers, and gets to meet all kinds of people, and even if he’s not living up to his Winchester legacy, at least he’s doing _something_ with his life.

Today is a day like any other. He’d had a late shift last night, but after a decent sleep-in, he gets up, eats breakfast, and heads to the gym to burn off some of his excess energy. If only his familiar form had turned out to be some kind of sloth, but no—the dog inside Dean insists on movement and exercise. At least he’s not a squirrel or something even more hyperactive, though.

Charlie meets him at the gym, like she does most days, and they work out together and then spar for a little while. His dad, before he’d passed, had taught him the importance of self-defence, and though Dean doubts he’d approve of the fiery redhead Dean is happy to call his workout buddy, his lesson has stuck with Dean for all these years.

His parents wouldn’t want him to meet the same fate they had.

That's not something he particularly wants or needs to think about right now, though. He shoves those thoughts out of his head as he finishes his workout with Charlie, then heads back to his apartment for a quick shower and some lunch. His shift today is an earlier one, finishing at midnight instead of the wee hours of the morning, so he hangs around in his apartment for a while, then makes his way to work.

The bar is pretty empty when he arrives, which isn’t surprising considering it isn’t even five yet. Jo waves at him from behind the counter where she’s already working, and once Dean leaves his helmet and his bag in his locker, he joins her.

Between the two of them, they tend to the few patrons who are already beginning to filter in, while getting everything set up for what will surely be a busy night ahead. By the time Garth and then Charlie join them later on in the night, the bar is busy, and Dean has his hands full serving the people who clamour for his attention. On nights like these, the energy in the bar is always high, and it gives Dean somewhat of a rush—enough to have his skin prickling and a bounce in his toes as he moves around like a drink-making whirlwind. He may not know—or _want_ to know—what it feels like to be bonded to a witch, but who needs that when he can come here, where the air practically crackles with the energy of so many people?

He rolls out his neck and grins privately to himself as he mixes up drinks for the pair of women at the end of the bar—gods, he loves his job.

The night wears on, and Dean continues to serve and clean and mix and chat, moving seamlessly around his co-workers with the practiced ease of someone who is damn good at his job. He’s having fun, making money, everything’s going well—

Until it isn’t.

He doesn’t notice it, at first—the slow, insidious creep of something _off_ , something dark and twisted and not quite human that permeates the electric atmosphere of the bar. It grows and builds, while a cold feeling creeps down Dean’s spine, until he turns to serve the next customer and finds a man standing on the opposite side of the bar, staring at him.

There’s something unsettling about him. He’s smiling at Dean, but it’s all teeth and doesn’t reach his eyes, and there’s something _predatory_ in the way that he’s watching Dean. A shiver runs the length of Dean’s spine—but this guy is still a customer, and no matter how much his presence is pinging Dean’s rader, he still has to be courteous.

“Hey, what can I get you?” he asks, reaching for a nearby bar cloth to keep his hands occupied. There’s a fine tremble to them, and he forces himself to steady.

The man leans against the bar, never taking his eyes off Dean. “A whiskey, neat,” he says, his words clipped and gravelly. In the low light of the bar, his eyes are a yellowish-brown colour that bores into Dean’s soul. “The most expensive stuff you’ve got.”

Dean is more than happy to get away from the well-dressed but unsettling man to fetch his drink. His hands have stopped shaking from sheer willpower, but he can still feel the insidiousness that’s settled over the bar and is dampening the feeling Dean usually gets from the crowd. Something is definitely wrong.

Still, he pulls down a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and carefully pours out a glass. When he returns to the man, that sinister gaze is still watching him. “Thank you,” the man says as Dean sets his glass down in front of him. “What’s your name, boy?”

Every single one of Dean’s instincts is telling him not to share, but this guy looks like the type to make a stink if he doesn’t get what he’s looking for, and Dean doesn’t really fancy losing his job tonight. “Dean,” he says carefully, just loud enough to be heard over the music and the chatter of patrons.

The man smiles and lifts his glass to his lips, taking a sip. “A good name.” He swirls the whiskey, watching how the colour shifts in the light. “And a good whiskey. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean’s skin crawls with the way the man says his name, but he forces himself to keep a composed outwards appearance. “You’re welcome. Will you be paying now or starting a tab?”

Wordlessly, the man sets his drink back down on the bar and reaches inside his jacket for his wallet. “What did you say your last name was again, Dean?” he asks idly as he thumbs through the bills inside his wallet. Alarm bells go off in Dean’s head.

“I didn’t.” His words are slow and careful, and he takes a half-step backwards. Immediately, the man raises his free hand placatingly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, insincerely and is a way that makes Dean want to get as far away as he possibly can. “I thought you looked familiar, but it must have been my mistake. Here.” He brandishes a hundred dollar bill between his fingers, holding it out slightly towards Dean. “For my drink, and a tip for your troubles.”

Dean doesn't trust this guy as far as he could throw him, but… he's not really in any position to be turning down such a big tip. He's got rent to pay, and money to be sent to Sam.

Against his better judgement, Dean steps forward and reaches for the money.

His fingers close around the edge of the bill, and when he pulls on it, the man lets go with little resistance—but as the money slips from the man’s grip completely, suddenly his hand shoots out and closes tightly around Dean’s wrist.

And Dean immediately knows that this may be his fatal error.

If he’d been feeling uncomfortable around the man before, this is a thousand times worse. His touch feels like an oil slick over Dean’s skin, spreading and spreading until it reaches his chest and _squeezes_ , paralyzing him and stealing his breath. This man is _evil_ , this man is _poison_.

This man is a witch.

And not just any witch. His touch reeks of dark magic, so strong that it’s choking Dean, overwhelming him with every second that those fingers stay iron-tight around his wrist. He’s a witch made from blood magic and demonic energy and from the way he’s staring at Dean like he wants to eat him alive, he knows—and can _feel_ —exactly what Dean is.

“Get the fuck off him!”

Jo shoves between them, and the man loses his grip on Dean’s wrist. Dean staggers back, still reeling and horrified that he let himself slip up. He should have trusted his gut, and known the man was hiding something. He may have been cloaking his magic, but some of it had still pinged Dean’s radar, he just hadn’t been _listening_ properly. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Jo is yelling at the man, calling security over to have him escorted out, but he’s not paying the slightest bit of attention to her. Instead, he’s still watching Dean, the traces of a smile on his lips. There’s no question that he got part of what he came for tonight—the confirmation that Dean is a familiar, and that Dean is a _Winchester_ , judging by his pointed questioning.

And now he wants _Dean_.

Dean turns on his heel and sprints out the back door, the hundred dollar bill fluttering to the ground where he’d been standing.

There’s no time to grab any of the stuff from his locker, not if he has any hope of even making it back to his apartment in time, so he slams out of the building and makes his way straight over to his bike. He shoves his key into the ignition as he swings his leg over the seat, and the bike roars to life. There’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that every second counts, that the man is following him with the intent of capture. Heart in his throat and refusing to look back, he revs his bike and takes off away from the bar.

Even this late at night, the traffic is still less than ideal, but at least Dean is manoeuvrable on his bike. He weaves recklessly between cars and tears through traffic lights on the cusp of turning red, cutting every corner and using every trick he knows to get back to his apartment before anyone else who may be following him. If the man knew where to find him at work, he almost certainly knows where Dean lives, and his time is running out.

As much as he loathes it, Dean leaves his bike on the pavement in front of his apartment building and sprints for the entrance, waving his keycard in the direction of the scanner and shoving open the front door. As he half-turns, he sees a dark-tinted car pull up beside his bike through the glass doors, and another rush of fearful adrenaline surges through him. He only lives on the third floor, but there’s no time to wait for the elevator. He takes the stairs in the emergency stairwell two at a time and by the time he reaches his apartment, he’s breathing hard, but there’s no way that’s going to slow him down.

It takes a few precious seconds for him to unlock his front door, and then he’s into his apartment. This place is his sanctuary—or what once _was_ his sanctuary, anyway. The things he needs are stashed away in his bedroom, which thankfully backs onto the fire escape, and that’s where he heads now.

There are a handful of hex bags and charms in the very bottom drawer of Dean’s nightstand, either given to him by his parents many years ago or provided by some of the few witches Dean knows to be trustworthy. He sifts through them until he finds one wrapped in bright red silk, then fumbles for the lighter he keeps in the drawer above. The bag and its contents burn in seconds: a signal to Sam, who (Dean hopes) still has its matching partner.

 _I’m in trouble, get to safety_. If Sam isn’t an idiot, he’ll get to Bobby’s as soon as he possibly can. Dean will be fine on his own—even if actually implementing the safety plans they’ve had in place for years is much more fucking stressful than his parents had ever made it seem.

Next, he reaches for the tiny vial wrapped up in unassuming brown cloth and uncorks it. Inside, the purple liquid seems to glitter, and he eyes it for half a second until there’s a banging at his front door, and then the decision is out of his hands. He lifts the vial to his lips and downs the contents in one swallow, pulling a face at the pungent taste. It’s worth it, though—by the time the potion stops making Dean untraceable and untrackable, he’ll be long gone from here.

The front door splinters, then opens with a crash, and Dean knows it’s time to go.

He drops the bottle and clambers to his feet, shoving the window open. The prospect of going down the rickety fire escape would be more daunting if he was on a higher floor, but even so, it’s not ideal. He can hear footsteps in his apartment though, and just as he climbs out onto the escape and turns to slam the window shut behind him, he sees the man from the bar walk into his bedroom.

He raises his hand and curls it into a fist just as Dean slams his hand down on the ward carved into the wooden frame to activate it. It’s one of the few wards he has in his apartment, put there by Bobby when he’d first moved in, and it’s worth it now to see the twist of fury on the man’s face when whatever magic he’d been trying to use fails.

Emboldened, Dean gives him a cheeky, two-fingered wave, then turns and climbs down the fire escape as fast as he can.

As soon as his feet touch concrete, he starts stripping off in a tangle of limbs and clothing. The night is cold against his bare skin, but any clothes that are left on him when he shifts could be used to trace him, and that’s not a risk he’s willing to take. The moment his last piece of clothing touches the ground, he shifts, and between one second and the next, his naked human form is replaced by that of an imposing-looking German Shepherd.

He vaguely knows the way towards Bobby’s, but it’s a long journey to undertake on foot, even in his dog form. Instead, he picks a direction—somewhat arbitrarily, but it almost feels like there’s something _pulling_ him that way, some deep-seated urge that he can’t quite name, resonating low in his gut.

Even now that he knows which way he’ll go, though, he can’t help but hesitate. He has _friends_ here, he has an apartment and a job and a _life_ , and tonight he’s leaving all of it behind. There’s no way he can fight back against the witch who’s hunting him, though—and as if on cue, a crash sounds from somewhere along the side of the building.

He’s still being hunted, and he’s out of time.

Dean takes a deep breath, and then he runs, and he doesn’t look back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Miggs: this story became so much more than I ever intended it to, but I think we've finally reached the end. I hope you like it, my lovely miggbean. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

When the morning comes, and the dawn is breaking quietly outside their bedroom window, Dean lies in Castiel’s arms and tells him everything.

He starts at the beginning, at the magic-lit housefire and his parents teaching him and his brother how to protect themselves against witches. He tells Castiel about the death of his mom in a car accident and the disappearance of his dad many years later, and about the one witch he trusts—a man named Bobby Singer—who looked after him and Sam in the years that followed. He talks about Sam going to Stanford, and the friends and job he’d left behind when he’d had to escape a witch who’d come searching for him, knowing that he was part of the Winchester bloodline.

He tells Castiel about his life, and how he’s had to watch his back every second of it, and Castiel listens.

And when it’s all over, and Dean is spent, eyes red-rimmed and voice hoarse from talking, Castiel holds him close and rubs his back. The morning sunlight spills across their bed.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispers—not for anything he’s done, but for the ache in his heart for Dean, and for the knowledge that so many people he shares a craft with have become so twisted as to try and _force_ a bond with a familiar. It makes his stomach roil just thinking about it, and he presses his face into Dean’s hair.

Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist and squeezes gently. “’S okay, Cas. I’m just… I’m glad I found you.”

Castiel’s heart clenches, and he holds Dean closer, memorizing the feeling of the familiar in his arms, the gentle rise and fall of Dean’s breath. This is perfect— _Dean_ is perfect, and it hurts his heart to know that he has been through so much in his life.

They stay in bed for a long time, exhausted by the night before and dozing peacefully while the sun continues to rise outside. Castiel is warm and comfortable and happy knowing that he has Dean, and that Dean is safe now. There’s no compulsion to leave his bed when he could happily stay here all morning.

Dean, however, seems to have other ideas. After about an hour, he starts to fidget—small movements at first, but Castiel is in-tune enough with him to notice them. “Something bothering you?” he mumbles into Dean’s hair, and the familiar lets out a soft, embarrassed chuckle at being caught.

“Sorry,” he says, “just… restless, I guess. Telling you about… well, everything, was pretty full on. I think I need to get up for a bit and just clear my head. Is that okay?”

 _Is it okay?_ “Dean,” Castiel says gently, “I’m not your keeper. Whatever you want to do is fine by me.” He’s not like those other witches—he doesn’t want to control Dean, not even a little bit. His familiar is far too headstrong for that, and Castiel would much rather just admire him as the untameable force of nature that he is.

Dean props himself up on one elbow, and Castiel obligingly lets his arms fall away, relinquishing his grip on Dean. In the morning light, his hair and his skin glow golden, and his soft smile is dazzlingly beautiful. “Thanks, Cas,” Dean whispers, leaning down to press a gentle, lingering kiss to Castiel’s lips.

Gracefully, he slides out from under the sheets and stands, all freckled skin and muscles that Castiel could drink in forever. Dean casts him one last soft look over his shoulder before turning away from their bed, and Castiel is left to watch him walk out of the bedroom, unabashedly naked.

The storm had passed late last night, but some part of Castiel still feels like he’s caught up in it when he’s with Dean, swept up in its turbulent embrace with no idea which way is up and which way means he’s falling.

Castiel leans his head back into the pillows and closes his eyes, that bone-deep weariness from last night still lingering, and lets sleep claim him once again.

~~~

Nothing has changed, and yet everything has changed.

Castiel and Dean still coexist, communicating without words and falling into an easy, gravitational relationship. They still tease each other, still spend sun-kissed afternoons in the garden, still read separate books in comfortable silence in the lounge room.

Except now, Castiel wakes up with Dean in his bed. They share lingering kisses over breakfast, and when Dean lends Castiel his focus in the garden, he presses closer, twines their fingers together. Having Dean touch his magic is so much _more_ now, an experience that makes his heart sing. Dean can feel it, and he grins, and once Castiel accidentally grows his apple tree fifteen feet tall because Dean had pressed a kiss to his neck right when he most needed to concentrate.

(The apple tree stays like that until the next day, and Castiel also has to tame back the flowers that had erupted across the garden when Dean had pressed him down into the grass and ridden him until Castiel could barely remember his own name, let alone how to reverse such a complicated spell.)  

Their life is quiet and uncomplicated. The weeks go by, and Dean settles in more and more. They take a trip into town to buy him some new clothes, since Castiel’s are just a little too small on him and not a feasible long-term option. Castiel doesn’t own a mobile phone—the magic and wardings around his house play havoc with that kind of technology, he’s found out in the past—and so Dean takes a handful of loose change and disappears in the direction of the old payphone behind the grocery store.

When he comes back, his eyes are watery, and his pockets are empty, but he’s smiling wider than he has in a while—perhaps wider than Castiel has ever seen him smile.

“Sam’s been at Bobby’s for the last month,” he says over dinner, his knee pressed against Castiel’s as he cuts happily into his steak. “He got my message before I had to get out, and he’s been laying low. Apparently they haven’t seen anything weird, though, so at least I know that witch hasn’t gone after Sam.”

“That’s good,” Castiel murmurs, but he’s only half-listening to Dean’s words. The familiar seems so _happy_ , as if a weight has lifted off his shoulders now that he’s been able to speak with his brother. There’s a lightness to him, and he shines as though from the inside, beautiful and good and Castiel’s heart aches with it.

Dean starts coming to markets and stores with Castiel, helping him sell the produce from their garden and charmingly peddling protective items to those who suspect what they’re buying isn’t real at all but that is, in fact, quite the opposite. He works perfectly by Castiel’s side, the other half he’d known had been missing but never realized how much he needed until he had _Dean_.

There are syllables almost constantly on the tip of his tongue, a longing that he feels in his soul but knows he can’t put into words.

_I want you to be mine._

_I need you._

_I love you_.

~~~

They settle into a sense of security, and they stop watching their backs.

And that is their mistake.

The storm blows in in the afternoon, roiling black clouds sliding over the sky until every trace of blue is engulfed and the world turns dark. It has Castiel’s hair standing up on end, his magic prickling uncomfortably, and from where he’s lying on the edge of the back porch, Dean growls at the approaching storm.

“I know,” Castiel mutters, half to Dean and half to himself. Something feels wrong—there’s a sense of unease hanging in the air, the dark clouds threatening more than just a little rain and lightning. He closes his eyes and reaches out with his magic, past Dean’s heartbeat and the brilliant glow of his own familiar magic to his garden beyond.

The feeling he gets from his garden is one of agitation, and once again, protection. This time, unlike how the protection of Dean had been soft, and calm, this feels sharper. He doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know _how_ —if only he could talk to his plants, but that might be a step too far and besides, Dean would tease him relentlessly for it—but he does know that something is coming.

He puts some of his energy into temporarily strengthening the wards around his property, and then he sits in his chair and watches the storm approach, Dean curled up in his lap now and eyeing the clouds with just as much apprehension as Castiel feels. He buries a hand in Dean’s fur, stroking gently over his back, and it seems to calm him a little, but his eyes still stay fixed on the sky.

The rain begins to fall, slowly at first and then harder, pinging off the roof and soaking every inch of the garden. Usually, Castiel’s plants would love this, would be turning their leaves towards the sky in welcome, but now they shudder and bend, though there is little wind to be felt.

Something is very wrong about this storm.

And then the first bolt of lightning hits, and instead of the surge of magic Castiel is accustomed to, he instead feels it strike right into the heart of his wardings.

He cries out with the shock and force of it, this phantom sensation spearing through him and attacking his magic. Dean jumps up, barking in agitation, and it’s only a second before the paws digging into his thighs shift, and his very human familiar is straddling his legs.

“Cas!” he shouts, straining to be heard over the sound of the rain and the rumbling thunder. One hand is gripping Castiel’s jaw, his green eyes searching Castiel’s frantically. “Are you okay? What the fuck just happened?”

Castiel can feel himself breathing hard, but distantly—as though he’s experiencing it from underwater, or behind a thick pane of glass. He’s never felt anything like that before, never had cause for anyone to directly attack his magic like this. “I don’t know,” he gasps out, and Dean whines, clearly feeling his distress. “It felt like… like something hitting my wards. Trying to take them down. Trying to take _me_ down.”

Dean goes very still, and his eyes widen. He looks tense, taut.

Guilty.

“The witch who chased me,” he says quietly, so quietly that Castiel can barely hear him over the roar of the storm. “It’s him. He’s here.”

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath. Some ancient, primordial part of him rails against the idea of someone daring to challenge him for _his_ familiar, for thinking they have even the _right_ to look in Dean’s direction at all. Normally, he would quash it, push it down because Dean is more than capable of making his own choices, even if that means he’s still not bonded to Castiel. But right now, in the midst of this wild storm and with a dangerous stranger threatening everything Castiel loves and has worked so hard for…

He bares his teeth, wild and unrestrained, and closes his eyes. Focuses on his magic. He can still feel the lingering shock of that lightning bolt, but instead he concentrates on strengthening it. He puts as much power as he can back into his wards, weaving back together the parts that had been damaged by the attack. They’re not as strong as they once were, but they’ll hold, and that’s all that Castiel needs right now.

“Get up,” he growls. When he opens his eyes, he sees Dean staring at him, wide eyes reflecting back the blue-green light of the sparks that dance along his arms.

“Cas?” Dean asks, and while he shifts slightly on Castiel’s lap, he gives no sign of moving properly. There’s concern in his eyes. Fear. “You’re not gonna do anything stupid, are you?”

Stupid would be sitting here and letting this hostile witch destroy their wardings bolt by bolt. Stupid was thinking that the witch had given up on having Dean.

Stupid is also going out into the rain to face down a competitor who feels more powerful, more dangerous, than Castiel, with no plans and no backup.

Castiel gives Dean a smile that he doesn’t feel and leans forward to kiss him, long and slow and sweet. One moment of peace and perfection in the midst of this storm, before everything could fall apart. “Of course not,” he whispers against Dean’s lips, and then he pushes at him gently until Dean has no option but to stand.

Castiel follows him, the two of them so close that their breaths intermingle in the air between them. “I’ll die before I let him take you, Dean,” he promises. He can see Dean crumple in front of him, barely holding it together when he nods.

“I’ll be with you,” Dean tells him. “Cas, I—“

He trails off, his jaw working, words he can’t put a voice to stuck in his throat. He doesn’t need to.

“I know,” Castiel says, giving him a quick smile. “I—“

Another bolt of lightning strikes, searing through his veins and chiseling away at his wardings again. He gasps with the force of it, and the only reason he stays upright is the press of Dean’s hands against his shoulders, keeping him standing. “Come on, Cas!” Dean urges. “He’s fucking strong, you need to take him on before he can break through the wardings.”

Dean is right—they’ve wasted too much time already. He straightens up with a grunt and focuses back in on his magic, hastily repairing the parts that had been damaged and casting his gaze out to the edges of his property.

On the western side, where the storm has rolled in from, he can feel the cloying presence of a dark energy. Something evil, something sinister, intent on breaking down Castiel’s barriers to reach the prize it covets within.

Wordlessly, he takes off running, not bothering with the steps and leaping down off the edge of the edge of the porch instead. The second his foot touches the ground and he’s out from underneath the roof, the rain pelts him, soaking through his clothes and his hair and plastering them to his skin. Castiel takes no notice—he has more pressing concerns right now than the small inconvenience of being wet and cold.

As he runs through the garden to the western edge of his property, Dean joins him, paws digging into the soggy earth. He’s also already soaked, his fur plastered to his body, but when he looks up and meets Castiel’s gaze, he can see the familiar’s determination. His loyalty.

They approach the border of Castiel’s property, slowing down from their dead sprint, and out of the darkness emerges the shape of a man. He stands tall, dressed in a suit and with perfectly styled hair, and where the rain soaks Dean and Castiel, it seems to deflect off him, and he stays perfectly dry.

That’s not the most important aspect, though, and it’s not the thing that Castiel focuses on, or that makes him go numb with dread.

While Castiel’s magic manifests itself in light, in the blue-green sparks that dance over his skin, this man’s hands and forearms are entirely consumed by a writhing, black mass of energy that gives Castiel chills even looking at it.

Dark magic.

The witch meets Castiel’s eyes and smiles, cold and calculating. “I see you’re the one who’s been hiding my familiar from me,” he says, and even though he’s barely pitching his voice over the storm, his voice still carries across the distance between them. “Hand him over, and you might make it out of this alive.”

Beside Castiel, Dean growls, louder than he’s ever heard him growl before. Despite his soaked fur, his hackles are standing up, teeth fully bared. A furious German Shepherd is definitely not to be trifled with, but the witch simply chuckles, an oozing, slimy sound.

“Such foolish bravery,” he says, and the darkness around his hands begins to writhe faster. “It won’t get you anywhere in the end, Winchester.” His attention turns back to Castiel—those eerie, yellow-brown eyes. “So, what will it be, _nature witch_?” The words are said with derision, like an insult. “The familiar, or your life? Either way, I’ll have him.”

It’s not even a contest. Castiel takes half a step forward, in front of Dean, and squares his shoulders. “You’ll have to kill me to get to him,” he growls, and he can feel the sparks of his own magic racing over his skin now. “I will not let you bind him against his will.”

The man’s mouth twists angrily. “I gave you a choice,” he says, taking a step forward. He’s standing right in front of the border of Castiel’s wardings now. “Your end is your own undoing.”

And with that, he reaches both hands up towards the sky. The storm gathers, the clouds overhead beginning to swirl angrily, and another bolt of lightning splits the sky in two as it races down to the earth. Again, Castiel feels it pierce his wards, so intrinsically linked to his own source of magic. This time, though, it feels stronger, as though the man had been holding back previously. This strike feels as though it’s trying to rend him in two, and his knees buckle with the force of it.

Castiel is strong, yes, but his magic is natural, and it’s with a sickening feeling that he’s realizing… he may not be a match for a man with dark magic and bartered demonic energy on his side.

A nose presses into Castiel’s hand, and he looks down to see Dean pressing against his side, watching him with wide, scared eyes. The familiar’s touch is comforting and, as Castiel sinks his fingers into the fur of Dean’s neck, gives him the extra boost to hold off the witch for a little longer.

Still, even with the extra help, he can feel his reserves weakening against the onslaught. Even as he watches, the man smiles, lowering his hands from the heavens. Using his magic looks almost effortless, while Castiel already feels lightheaded from defending his wardings and his property.

The witch splays his fingers, tendrils of dark energy snaking between them in a mass of oily liquid and smoke, and then reaches forward and presses his hands against the invisible barrier of Castiel’s wards. The tendrils spreads out from those two points, snaking over Castiel’s wardings, looking for any place that can be weakened and used to break through.

Castiel falls to his knees, shaking with the redoubled effort of fighting back against the relentless pressure, the attacks that break apart his wardings faster than he can put them back together. He can feel his magic draining, his body cold even without the rain that continues to pour down around them, sinking his knees and his bare feet into the mud.

“I will have that familiar, even if I have to kill you for it,” the man growls, sounding as though he isn’t even breaking a sweat. Castiel snarls, trembles, redoubles his efforts. He can feel himself losing ground quickly.

Dean’s fur is thick and wet between his fingers, and then it’s not fur any more, and there are hands cupping his jaw and green eyes meeting his own. “Cas! _Cas!_ ” Dean is shouting frantically, straining to be heard over the roar of the storm and the howl of the wind. “He’s killing you, Cas! You can’t let him!”

“I don’t have a choice,” Castiel gasps out. It feels like his body is tearing apart, and his fingers scrabble against Dean’s skin, gripping onto the soaked fabric of his t-shirt. “I can’t give up… but he’s so much stronger than me.” There’s so much he’s never said to Dean, and now he’s never going to get the chance.

Dean’s face is going fuzzy now, and Castiel forces himself to concentrate on it even as it fades in and out of focus. Dean is saying something, his lips moving, but it’s so hard to concentrate on. Still, he has to try.

“—please, Cas, listen! You have to bond with me, please! It’s the only way!”

Dean is asking Castiel to _bond_ with him. Permanently. Forever.

He shakes his head, partly in disagreement and partly to try and dispel the fog that’s creeping over the edge of his senses as he tries to withstand the onslaught on his very magic itself. “I can’t,” he gasps out. “That’s not what you want. I won’t.”

Dean growls, and his fingertips dig into Castiel’s jaw, keeping him grounded. “It is, Cas! I should’ve asked before now, but I was too much of a fucking coward. I _want_ this. I want _you_. No one else.” His voice softens, and he presses his forehead against Castiel’s. “Please, Cas. Trust me.”

Castiel looks into Dean’s eyes, and sees nothing but open honesty and loyalty and—well, he doesn’t want to put a name to that emotion just yet. But nothing he sees in Dean makes him doubt the familiar’s conviction, and he releases a shuddering breath.

“Okay.”

He takes Dean’s hands in his and lets the floodgates down—all of them, every single one. Everything that had been keeping Castiel, the witch, separate from Dean, the familiar, is taken away, leaving nothing between them. If using Dean to focus his magic before had been an incredible experience, this is otherworldly.

He can _feel_ Dean melding into his magic. The familiar whimpers under his breath as he takes on the burden of the enemy witch’s attacks, but between them, they bear it, and Castiel can feel his strength building, growing, _transforming_.

Dean is his familiar. They are bound, they are one, they are _everything_.

Even through his closed eyes, Castiel can see a brightness, a blue-green light that envelops them and beats back the darkness. Over the sound of the storm, so far away now, he can hear the witch screaming, “ _No!_ ”

And then his whole world explodes, and everything turns black.

~~~

When he wakes, it’s to a quiet house.

The smell of cooking food lingers on the air, and Castiel’s stomach rumbles insistently even before he’s fully awake. However long he’s been asleep for, it’s been long enough that his body is demanding he eat.

That can wait, though. For a few minutes, Castiel just lies there in his bed, eyes half-closed in a gentle doze as he recalls what had happened—yesterday? There’s sunlight spilling in through the windows, and no sign of the raging storm that he remembers, so it’s probably a good guess.

He remembers the storm, and the witch, and using every bit of his magic to stave off the attack. He remembers struggling, and he remembers Dean.

 _Dean_.

He’d bonded with Dean.

He sits bolt upright in bed, and quickly regrets it, his muscles screaming their protest. He can’t remember what happened after their bonding, but it’s clearly taken a toll on his body, and he grunts with the ache of it. “Gods,” he says under his breath, waiting until the room stops wavering in his vision.

Getting out of bed is slow going, and it takes Castiel a little while to locate and then pull on a pair of pajama pants before he feels like he can face whatever has happened in the world while he’s been asleep. On weary limbs, he pads out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen, to the wonderful smell and the tugging he can feel in his magic like one end of a taut-pulled string.

The smell and the feeling both grow stronger the closer he gets to the kitchen, and then he turns the corner, and there is Dean.

His familiar is standing by the stove, keeping an eye on the pancake he’s cooking while a stack of them rest on a plate to his left. He’s wearing boxers and one of Castiel’s old hoodies, and humming quietly to himself. It’s beautiful and domestic and Castiel thinks, for one fleeting second, that he may well be dreaming.

Before he can speak, Dean half-turns his head, and Castiel can see a smile curling the edge of his mouth. “You gonna come say good morning to me, or just keep standing there all day?”

Castiel startles slightly, wondering how he’d been caught—but then again, if Dean can feel what he can feel, the connectedness and the tether that feels as though it runs between them, then it’s no surprise. He smiles to himself, crossing the kitchen slowly until he’s standing behind Dean, wrapping his arms around the familiar’s waist and pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

If he’d thought that his magic sang when he’d touched Dean before, now it’s a thousand times better. He feels alive, and whole, and _full_ , and his breath shudders against Dean’s skin as he takes it all in.

Dean leans back against him slightly, probably experiencing something similar to what Castiel is, and for a few moments they just stand there, holding each other’s weight and just letting themselves _feel_.

“How are you feeling?” Dean says eventually, soft words breaking the quiet.

Castiel hums against the back of his neck. “Like I got hit by a freight train,” he admits with a wry curl of his lips. “How long was I asleep for?”

“Almost a whole day.” Dean shifts, reaching out to flip the pancake that has probably been in the pan for too long, but Castiel doesn’t miss the way his voice wavers. “You really had me worried there. I’m glad you’re okay.”

A whole day. Castiel exhales, long and slow, piecing together the information in his head. “What happened to the witch, then?”

The question makes Dean pause, and then he slides his spatula under the pancake and scoops it out of the pan, onto the waiting stack. “It might be better if I show you,” he says, and Castiel frowns.

“Why?”

Dean must be able to hear the tension in his voice, because there’s a gentle smile curving his lips as he turns to face Castiel. “It’s nothing bad,” he promises, winding his arms around Cas’s neck and stepping in close. “I just think it’ll be easier if I can show you. Plus, you’re gonna wanna see what happened.”

And if _that_ isn’t just frustratingly unclear. Dean just chuckles and presses kisses to Castiel’s jaw until he relents, turning his head to catch Dean’s mouth with his own. For a few quiet minutes, they stand entwined in the kitchen, each holding the other close as they share soft, desperate kisses.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Dean breathes again, into the barely-there space between them.

Castiel’s fingers tighten in the fabric of Dean’s hoodie, and he lets out a shaky breath. “I would have done anything to protect you, Dean.”

This time, when Dean kisses him, it’s full of desperation and the passion of a great loss that never came to be. Castiel knows, because he feels it, deep in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t know what he would have done if he’d lost Dean.

“C’mon,” Dean murmurs, once their kiss has faded to gentle brushes of lips. His mouth curves against Castiel’s. “Let’s have breakfast, and then I’ll show you.”

The pancakes are incredible—Dean’s cooking always is—but Castiel can hardly sit still with the strength of his own curiosity. Dean can clearly see it, smiling in soft amusement around each forkful, but his knee remains a comforting press against Castiel’s under the table.

Finally, all the pancakes have been eaten, and Castiel shoves his chair back impatiently. With one hand, he levitates the dishes off the table and over towards the sink, a spell he can do without thinking, one that he’s done hundreds and hundreds of time over the years.

Except somehow, he must overestimate the distance, because the plates go rocketing across the room and, instead of landing neatly in the sink, smash through the kitchen windows above it and go tumbling into the garden.

Castiel just stares, completely bewildered and wondering how he’d overestimated _that badly_ , while Dean laughs his ass off next to him. “Oh, man,” the familiar says, wiping away tears, “we’ve got a lot of work to do, bud. Come on, I’ll show you the garden and explain just what happened yesterday.”

They walk out hand in hand, Castiel leaning on Dean to hold himself up because gods, his legs still ache, and after what happened with the dishes, he’s not sure that healing himself is a good idea until he actually gets a handle on whatever’s happened to his powers.

Unlike his memories of yesterday, of darkness and pelting rain and his plants bending beneath the strength of the storm’s wind, today is quiet. Calm. The sun shines overhead, everything looks green and lush and happy. _Welcome home_ , his plants seem to say, reaching out not just to Castiel but to both of them, as one. Dean smiles and reaches out to touch the flowers of the wisteria as they pass—a soft, gentle moment that has Castiel’s heart swelling in his chest.

Dean had always fit in perfectly with his garden, and now Castiel can’t quite believe that they’re _bonded_. He’d held out hope that it would happen one day, but the reality is already so incredible, and will only get more so the more they learn about their new powers and how to work together.

As they get closer to the western edge of Castiel’s property, he starts to notice plants that shouldn’t be there. Dandelions, borage, oak saplings and patches of stinging nettle. They become more and more numerous the closer they get to where the fight had taken place, until they step out into the clearing of the border. The patches of plants give way to grass, a patch in the centre where everything else had radiated outwards from.

In the middle of the grass circle are two plants; one inside Castiel’s property, and the other just outside the edge of his wardings.

That plant is a small lobelia shrub, a patch of purple flowers against the bright green grass.

The second, the one just inside Castiel’s garden—right where he and Dean had been standing, if he remembers right—is a familiar plant. It’s tall, green leaves and green flowers, and one that he remembers catching a glimpse of on that first night during the storm.

It’s an ambrosia.

Dean leads Castiel closer, and for a few moments they stand in silence, looking down at the two plants that are all the evidence that remains of what happened here yesterday.

“He just kinda… disappeared,” Dean says quietly. “Like one second he was here, and the next, gone. Obliterated. When we bonded… it was like you went supernova, Cas. All this light and energy that built up inside you and then exploded outwards like a star. He never had a fuckin’ chance.”

Castiel leans against Dean’s shoulder, absorbing the information. He’s never heard of anything like that happening—but then again, he and Dean aren’t exactly the conventional pair. As long as it destroyed the witch who had been willing to kill him to get to Dean, that’s all that matters. “Good,” he says quietly. He’s never been one to condone violence, but for this, he’ll make an exception.

Dean turns his head and presses a kiss to Castiel’s hair, then looks back at the plants. “Do they have a special meaning?” he asks, curiosity in his voice. “Why did they sprout there?”

“I don’t know exactly why they sprouted there, but the lobelia—the purple one—means ‘malevolence.’” His lips curl wryly. “I’ll give you two guesses as to why that one’s there.”

“It’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?” Dean says with a chuckle, and Castiel grins.

“Just a little. And the other one…”

The other one holds more meaning, definitely. And the fact that there’s one plant representing the both of them…

He wraps an arm around Dean’s waist and holds his familiar close—gods, he’s so fucking lucky to have Dean. “That’s an ambrosia,” he says softly.

Around them, the garden is golden in the morning sun, serene and quiet and perfect for this moment. Castiel’s heart has never felt quite so full, and the feeling only grows when Dean looks down at him, eyes soft and a gentle, happy smile on his face. _This_ is what he’s been missing, all these years.

“It means ‘love is reciprocated.’”

**Author's Note:**

> Wisteria: welcome  
> Dandelions: overcoming hardship  
> Borage: courage  
> Oak leaves: strength  
> Stinging nettle: life and death/protection  
> Lobelia: malevolence  
> Ambrosia: love is reciprocated
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed! <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), and subscribe to me on ao3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo) <3


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